


Hiding In Plain Sight

by IsYourH3artTaken



Category: Divergent (Movies), Divergent Series - Veronica Roth
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Broken Families, Candor Faction, Dauntless Faction, Emotional Manipulation, Erudite Faction, Eventual Romance, F/M, Panic Attacks, Platonic Relationships, Psychological Horror, References to Depression, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-14
Updated: 2015-10-19
Packaged: 2018-03-30 14:07:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 37,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3939667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IsYourH3artTaken/pseuds/IsYourH3artTaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say a Choosing Ceremony is a right of passage; that a simple decision of faction determines whether or not we're ready to enter society as adults. As something of worth. But if life taught me anything, it's that deciding to choose also means deciding lose. It took me a while to realize it, but by then, it was too late. It was already happening. Eric/OC.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Price of Dissent

**Author's Note:**

> "My heart wants roots. My mind wants wings. I cannot bear their bickerings."  
> — E. Y. Harburg

My family is scattered.

We've never had a civil conversation since my older sister transferred to Erudite. Our mom and dad always raised us to be loyal, to carry faith and prosperity in our hearts without it poisoning our self-reason and fracture the ability to say what's on our minds. The words you choose can lead to treachery and deceit. I know my parents would rather give their heads than turn the coin, but sometimes it's hard to tell. I can hear the words in silence if I really stop and think, about it, but I'll never know for sure because they never give the decency to speak as if I was alive.

Candor has always been built on honesty, saying it like it is and meaning it no less. Especially with family. That's all we have in the end. At least, that's what they tell me. The telltale stories are so contrived sometimes, a fairy tale seems more believable. But that's all we know them as; just stories. Something to tell your children before you put them down to bed. I want to talk about my sister and her choice to leave us, but her name never escapes my lips. They feel betrayed. I know they do. We thought she was going to stay; she told us she was.

Maybe she was scared. Maybe she felt confused and pressured and the test results didn't come back the way she wanted them to. I still remember how the blood dripped from her palm like rain water, the droplet hitting the stones so quietly like a pin falling on a carpet. She was no longer Colette from then on, no longer my sister. She belonged to Erudite. That was six years ago, but the weight of her decision hung steel over my household. I don't remember the last time my parents smiled or laughed at something I said. They used to do that everyday, but now, I consider myself lucky to be graced with one once every two months.

It's like living with ghosts. Seeing them everywhere, but never hearing, smelling, or touching them. When somebody asks me who I live with, I'm always inclined to say "alone" because that's what it feels like. I feel alone in an old house with too much space that I don't have the slightest idea what to do with. I miss Mocky and his softs mewls and the pitter patter of his paws on the floor. Mocky was my childhood pet, a stray cat Colette and I found while playing together outside. He was so nefarious at first, hissing and scratching at us if we came too close for comfort. He came around though, when Colette baited him with a chunk of dry ham.

After that, he was inseparable with us. Our parents detested the idea of indoor animals, irregardless of our faction being okay with it, but he was aloud to stay within our property, provided that we feed him and clean him regularly. His name was derived from the fact that if either Colette or I spoke in his presence, he would respond with little yowls that sounded like he was mocking our childish voices. That's how he became Mocky. Sometimes in the dead of night, we'd sneak outside and smuggle him up into our shared room so he wouldn't have to spend the night in the cold air. One of us had to stay up the entire night so we could take him back outside before our parents woke and caught the smell of cat fur in our room.

He died a week before Colette's Choosing day. We never found out what took him from us, just that he wouldn't wake from his favorite napping bush. It was the first and last time I ever cried in front of my parents. I can still remember their faces...so cold and uncaring. It makes me wonder what they'd do if something ever happens to me, if they'd feel anything at all. Maybe they switched off all extremes of emotion when Colette left us.

Maybe I should do the same.

* * *

I can't look at myself in the mirror.

I know I look tired and expired. The aching of my knees and soreness at my back tell me so. Sleep hasn't been easy these pasts few days. The stress and frugal approach of my Choosing day has worked the circuits of my brain and cranked them until there was nothing left except ash and the taste of metallic in my mouth. I told myself that it was just a phase, a glitch that I will soon get over, but the day has finally come and I don't feel any different. I go through the motions of a bleak morning and keep my head hung low while I'm in the bathroom so I don't make contact with my own gaze in the mirror.

I can hear my mother downstairs, fixing the table for breakfast, pouring my usual glass of orange juice. I dry my damp face with a towel, then rake my fingers through the mess of tendrils I call hair. The color looks dull against the light, sun ridden tone of my skin and I think back of when it used to shine so brilliantly under the summer afternoon's glare, when I had the desire to actually do something with it than leave it down and simple. I experimented with different braids and buns, even sleeping in them so when I brushed it in the morning the waves would resemble the flow of sea.

I just leave it straight now, smooth and natural, hitting against the very bottom band of my bra. Colette and I used to compete on who could grow theirs the fastest. Hers was just at the small of her back when she left. Mine will take months to reach that extent and I know if she were here right now, she would bounce all over the walls, gloating. _I win,_ her voice echos in my ear and an involuntary shivers goes from the nape of my neck all the way down to my spine. Her presence was so strong, I still feel it sometimes, but I can never understand if it's a cold kind of comfort or just my imagination carrying me away.

I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear and go downstairs to breakfast. My parents are already seated when I walk in and don't even look at me when I take my place. They sit separated at either ends of the table, my chair wedges in between and the space opposite of me where Colette used to sit remains empty. Mom had cleaned it of silverware and china the day she departed. Even the chair is missing, like she never existed. There was never a Colette Rowe. She's just a memory, a fantasy I wish came true.

I eat my eggs and chopped fruit with equal amount of silence. The taste of the oranges seem a bit off, bitter somehow, and I smack my lips together to wash away it's thick residue.

I think about the Choosing ceremony and the conflict that must've clouded my sister's judgement as she stood in front of each bowl. Making decisions are never an in between. It's yes or no; right or wrong. It can be easy or hard. But that's what they say, what I grew up believing. Now that I'm older, I'm not sure if that's true anymore. There's so much more to everything we know. I know there's more to my parent's coldness, their inability to connect with me anymore. I spent the last two years rearranging my confused thoughts, searching through possibilities, digging for pieces to see if they matched.

But my parents are an unapproachable enigma that I never seem to make sense of and I don't know how much longer I can try. I'm tired of being their model. Doing what they want, saying what they liked, and not caring at all, just as they do. There's more to this kind of secluded life. I just can't tell them that to their face. I could've, a long time ago, when Candor traits still ran strong in me and I embraced them like second nature. But I'm changing and they don't see it. Maybe they do and they just don't care. Is there even a difference?

At times, I wonder if this is how Colette felt all those years. Trapped. Unseen.

I think, finally, I understand now. I know what I'm going to do.

We leave immediately for The Hub after breakfast. The ride is short and uneventful. My mother speaks only once to me and it's to tell me to adjust my skirt because it's ruffled at the hem. I do what she says and smooth away the wrinkles with the pads of my fingers, then sit back and rest my temple against the window of the bus as it carries us closer to the first and only opportunity of separation or a lifetime of solidarity and hollow words with no volume. I don't believe in my faction anymore, that much is certain. How could I when they refuse to acknowledge my time of need? They talk about secrets and lies and dishonesty like it's something of the past, but I know every Candor member is guilty of one.

No one wants to think that they could be one of the people left with nothing and no one. I know it's a fear I have to face. I can't walk away from it, even when I think it won't follow. I know Colette wasn't content with what she had, so she went against it. I know the feeling because I received my aptitude test results yesterday. And it came back Erudite.

Just like her.

I never once pondered following her, because I knew retracing her path won't make me feel any better. This was something I had to choose on my own and mine alone. I don't think of my family because I know they rarely think of me. I see the vacancy of their stares, the pointlessness of their words and it just feels like water through my fingers. I can't take their anger, their resentment and depression they feel for my sister and make it apart of me. I can't let myself be that open anymore. When you let someone in, you come back a little more damaged than before. It's not worth the struggle.

The bus hisses to a stop and I automatically stand up, smooth my shirt, then skip out into the sidewalk. I hear my parents follow at my heels, but don't bother to wait for them to catch up, and just continue on into the building. There's an elevator that rides us all the way to the top floor, where the ceremony has taken place for over a hundred years. The room is almost full when we enter and we take our seats in the middle row with the rest of Candor. A light shines brightly on the stage, like an ethereal beam highlighting each faction stone.

I study each one until a tall, short haired woman steps up into the podium. Jeanine Matthews, here to show us all where we belong. Her face has become something of an icon since she rose to representative. She's often reverred for her strength, leadership, and quiet sense of power. I listen to her monologue with very little interest, as I have heard it before years ago, yet somehow I find myself mouthing along her lines. The words etches into my brain, like a bad scar. Her eyes flick over every face, but it seems that she has us all under her retina, looking at us all directly. She's the only person that has that effect; the illusion to do an impossible thing.

But that's who she is. An impossibly powerful woman.

Their introduction ends and the round of names are called. The z's are first, and I sit still, ankles crossed, waiting for them to move up the alphabet. After ten minutes, my name floats into the air.

"Charlotte Rowe."

My parents rise robotically to let me pass and I shuffle into the aisle without looking their way. I think I hear my mother call my name, and I'm too close to stopping and going back, but I convince myself it's just a trick of the ears and continue my way up to the podium. My feet feel heavy as I pad up the steps and stand in front of the five white bowels. There is no sound in my ears. No blipping heartbeats, the wheezing of each breathe I inhale, not even the words a representative tells me as he slips me the knife. All I can comprehend us that time is ticking and my blood can only drip onto one surface.

I have to make a choice.

The knife is like rubber in my palm and I hold onto it tighter so it won't clatter to the floor. I know I look inept as I stand there, unmoving eyes trained on a spot on the dagger's blade, trying to make sense of the inner workings I call my mind. A crick pinches my gut and I automatically take a step forward toward one bowl. I don't want to go back. I never want to go back to them, to Candor, to my parents. To a house that feels empty and offers no relief. I don't want to go home to nothing.

My feet take me closer to the bowl of my choice and I use the knife to prick my pointer finger, wincing when it goes deeper than I intend. I press my thumb against the cut and watch as a single tear drop of blood dribbles down and splashes onto the lit coals. It sizzles, sending a ray of warmth up into my face and I breath in the scent of my own fluid.

_Dauntless._

I choose Dauntless.

I need more than just the sobering of words. I need to know that I'll be okay physically and emotionally. Telling myself that is not enough. It's never going to be enough, but now I can say that it's going to change. I'm jumping into the unknown, taking everything that has bottled up in me and throwing it all away. It's not apart of me anymore. I bled it out and I will bleed ounces more to keep it that way.

I turn around when a representative announces my decision, but I don't look at my former faction. The open arms and cheering of Dauntless grasps me like a straight jacket and doesn't let go until I'm sitting down, thumb pressed into my gashed finger to stop the blood flow. The ceremony proceeds as normal and concludes with a few final words from each representative. I stand with my new faction as soon as it's over, a weight lifting from my shoulders and my mind feels so much calmer. Collected. For a short, brief second, I feel like myself again. Not the girl Candor has processed me to be.

I follow the herd to the lower floors as they fall into a thick line for the staircase, but before the group goes far, an invisible force stops me in my tracks.

My parents.

Despite how long they shut me out, the loneliness they inflicted on me and the sense that I'll never fill that gape in their heart because having me around isn't enough, I feel like as their child, my first obligation is toward them. They brought me into this world. If joining Dauntless was a form of leaving it, I have to say goodbye; my final act act as a Candor and their daughter. When I walk back to the auditorium, there is still some adults left talking amongst each other or other representatives. My eyes scan the lines of empty seats and fall upon the two where my parents once sat, but they are no longer there. The cushions are indented from the impact of their bodies, but I don't see either of them.

They're gone.

An almost numbing sort of relief settles over me and I spin on my heel, jogging back toward the stairs so I don't miss the commute down. Their vigorous footsteps pound all the way down the hundred flight steps, boastful chuckles like claps of thunder. I slip past other initiates and run with the front of the pack as they make clear haste for the opening that's shining with mid morning light. They burst through the exit and descend the final flight of steps and swarm into the streets, black clothing forming into one large shape like an impending wraith. It's over, I think to myself as I run. I did it. I made a choice and I'm certain it is the right one. This is just the beginning.

I'm no longer Charlotte Rowe, sister of Colette Rowe, and youngest daughter of Philip and Irene Rowe.

I'm Charlotte of Dauntless now.

* * *

When I wait for the train to stop at my pick up, there's a lightness to my body I haven't felt before. I tilt my face up toward the sun and just take in the breathable scent of oil and rusted metal. Warmth floods my cheeks and I feel it pulse at my neck and radiate all the way down to my toes, making me wiggle them in my shoes. It's an emotion I can't quite pin point, but it's there and it's nothing like what solitude brings to me. I don't feel like there's something vital in me missing, though I know I'm not whole either. Maybe I will be one day, but the journey won't be easy. It never is.

I curl my fingers together when the train chugs around the curve and the others begin to cheer wildly. I'm prepared for it to wheez to a stop, but it gushes past us and flies down the track, leaving dust and gusts of wind in its wake. I see long handles hooked onto the metal plates and instinctively break into a sprint after it, hearing the initiates quickly follow. It's like a child attempting to capture and bottle a butterfly and I'm this close to snaring my prize. My legs carry me close enough to reach the proximity of one handle and I risk the jump. My hand shoots out and curls around the cold steel and I propel myself forward, clinging close to the edge until I'm able to push the door open.

My body stumbles forward and I almost fall to my knees, but I catch myself on the wall. The thumping of other bodies alert me that the tranfers have made it on as well and I turn to see them all piling aboard, laughing and smiling at the rush of it all. By that time, I'm breathing heavily and rest my back against the wall, exhaling slowly so I don't lose all my energy. Inside, I'm over the moon. I've taken the first step and so far, it wasn't beating me down completely. There's still some resolve in me, but I know it will take only one good hard blow to shatter it. I can't risk my walls breaking down so early in the game so I lock myself inside my thoughts and wrap all the negativity in a soundproof blanket so it doesn't make a noise.

Everyone around me is so ecstatic. I wish I can join in on their celebration, but I don't feel comfort around strangers, even when I see a dark haired girl wearing the same Candor colors, laughing with another. A side of me is still slightly shaken and mildy surprised that I even went through with the switch at Choosing. I could have easily stayed, kept up my role as dutiful daughter and student, living blissfully in ignorance. I could _have,_ but I don't want to. I want a normal life. I want happiness.

But sometimes I think it's not for me.

"Get ready," a supervisor tells us and stands at the edge of the exit calmly, then after a chilling moment, leaps out and rolls onto a rooftop. I jump up from my corner and rush forward with the others to see if she's okay.

And she is. She's standing on her feet and waving at us to do the same. It's either jump or ride the train until it stops in the middle of nowhere and you're left alone, for the rest of your life. I experienced the latter for a fleeting moment. I never want it to happen again and the choice is like glass. I'm jumping. If I can hop on the train, getting off of it shouldn't be any less difficult.

I teeter back against the wall again, taking a deep breath, and wait until we zip by the next building at a clear angle. I don't let the seconds pass me for too long because I know if it does, I'll lose all my courage and stay in the trains until it coasters off the rails. I heard stories about people that fell off in mid flight or hid in the train cart until it eventually hit the end of the line, never to be seen again. I'll never let that happen to me. I'll never let myself become a one lined anecdote.

So I jump.

My body soars through the air and I hit solid ground, landing with a bruising thud on my side. Tiny stone cobbles press painfully against my cheek and I feel dust and soil sprinkle in my hair. My eyes are clenched shut, but I open them gradually as sunlight beats down on my face. My pupils dilate and I slowly sit up on my knees, shaking my hair to get off the grime and earth. Everyone else has made it off in time, and stir lightly on the floor, slightly disoriented.

"Alright, listen up," a voice cuts. My head snaps to the source and I see a man standing on top of the ledge. He's older, in his mid twenties maybe, and with many piercings along his left eyebrow and both ears. The image matches the rough tone of voice. "I'm Eric. I'm one of your leaders. If you want to enter Dauntless, this is the way in. And if you don't have the guts to jump, then you don't belong in Dauntless."

"Is there water at the bottom or something?" A boy asks.

"Well, I guess you'll find out," Eric answers very cryptically. "Or not." None of us are particularly reassured and a lot just glance around warily. "Someone's gotta go first. Whose it gonna be?"

A beat passes.

Nobody steps forward.

I look around and see everyone looking here or there, anywhere besides Eric. They're scared, nervous because they don't know if the fall could take their lives, in which it very much can, depending on what we're landing on. But it can't be something dangerous. We have to come out of this alive, more or less. Scraping blood off cement seems pretty tricky anyways. When no speaks up to volunteer, my own lips part to offer to go first, but someone else beats me to it.

"Me," a petite, brown haired girl answers and wades through the crowd. She's pretty, cherubic looking somehow, but the glaze of her eyes she's been through more than she deserves and it forced her to grow up quick.

Eric steps down from the ledge without a word and stands behind her when she scales the ledge, apprehensive and probably second guessing herself. She sheds her coat and noticeably stiffens when a boy makes an obscene comment towards her. I glare at him, biting the inside of my cheek so I don't snap and tell him to shut up.

"Today, initiate," Eric clips when the girl doesn't move. She stands with her arm slightly extended at her sides and I count to ten in my head, moving my lips soundlessly with each number and once I reach five, she leaps down into the hole. I hold my breath and wait for any echo that she landed safely at the bottom, but the only sound is the wind blowing through my hair.

"Is she okay?" I ask, glancing at our pierced leader.

Eric looks at me unassumingly, eyes hard. "Why don't you go down and check?"

I narrow my gaze at him a little and just cross my arms, and the contact holds until he pivotes around to face us.

"Alright, whose next?" He says, his attention flickering to each and every face. He's so much taller than what I first noticed and probably surpasses my father's extensive height of 6'1.

Again, silence swallows the entire group. I missed my chance the first time and I figure I might as well get it over with because if I stand by and watch as the rest take their dives, I'll be too fearful when the time comes for mine.

"I guess I'll go," I declare and Eric gestures me to go forward with a hand, not saying anything. I weave my way forward and swing my legs over the ledge, then tentatively stand on my feet, putting pressure on my heels so I don't wobble. Peering down, I see a dark hole leading down into what I guess is the main compound.

It's pitch black and impossible for me to see anything.

"Don't be scared, girl," the same voice that teased the first girl says, and the boy chuckles, light and every kind of obnoxious.

I ball my hands into fists, but refuse to lose composure in front of them. "I'm not."

"Then jump," Eric shoots back, breaking the banter between the other boy and I, but I know his remark wasn't to be taken carelessly. He meant it as an order.

I take a deep breath and tell myself that I'll be okay. It'll be fine. Darkness can't hurt me. Only my mind.

"I think she's gonna cry," the boy quips again, chuckling along with two other transfers.

A valve in me snaps and I whirl around, keeping the balance at level. "How about I use your body as a landing pad?" I bite in the boy's direction.

He grins. "How about I try yours out first?"

I catch the double meaning in his words and my fingers clench together in anger. I'm plenty used to people jabbing at me freely like this, but it doesn't mean I'll lie back and take it. Technically, I'm not Dauntless yet. I'm still Candor. This situation is where my DNA shows. I stick one foot out to come down to show him what exactly I thought of his little suggestion, but Eric's rocky command keeps me rooted.

"Enough!" He exclaims, eyebrows pulling together. He looks up at me on the edge then behind him at the boy. The burning in his eyes is enough to unsettle anyone. "Another word from either of you and you're out. Got it?"

I nod, looking at him dead in the eye. "Got it."

Without facing the drop zone, I wave goodbye to my onlookers, then let myself fall back. My hair swirls in front of my face, and my vision is partially blocked by my thick tendrils. I see bits of brickwall and flashes of the blue sky get smaller and smaller until I bounce onto a springy net. My skin pinches from the material and I blink away the stars that dots my vision. My heart is pumping fast and blood runs hotly through my veins like a river, making me feel very alive and energized. I stare up at the hole and faintly see the wall where I had just flung myself from seconds ago. From the opposite end, it really doesn't look that high.

I sit up and swing one leg over to glide off, but another man walks up, tall, not as tall as Eric but looks to be about the same age. He grabs my waist with both hands and lifts me up and onto steady ground as if I weigh close to nothing. He's handsome and with a voice that's smooth but with jagged edges, like thick syrup poured over broken glass. I remember a boy in my school during the seventh grade that had the exact same eyes. We were supposed to go on our very first date together the day after my sister's Choosing, but it never happened.

"What's your name?" The guy asks me, removing his hands from my waist.

"Charlotte," I tell him, running a hand over my forehead. My tossle in the net leaves me disoriented and the steps I take are small and cautious.

"Second jumper: Charlotte." People cheer and yip my name, patting my back in a friendly manner as I take my place beside the first jumper. Glancing up at the large screen, I see that her name is Tris.

I stand by her and watch as one by one, the initiates plummet into the net. Some scream in terror while others hoot in pure adrenaline. It takes a while to get them all to the common floor, even longer when the last jumper takes her sweet time and Eric is forced to shove her off when she leasts expects it. She flails to the net like a sack of potatoes and I cover my mouth with one hand to disguise my smirk. If it had been the boy I was exchanging snipes with earlier, I probably would've burst into laughter, but he was the fifth jumper. I can't help but give credit where it's due.

When everyone gathers together, the Dauntless born are taken with another leader, leaving the remaining under Four's authority, the man that helped me off the net. As he leads us to our quarters, I think for the first time that maybe, just maybe, I might make it here.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! ♥


	2. Think Fast, Shoot Faster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I needed to be."  
> — Douglas Adams, The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul

It's clear that our leaders are not someone to trifle with. It's like speaking to a parent when you're a toddler. You act with respect - or you keep your mouth shut. I already seen Four almost bite another Candor girl's head off for one salty comment. Humor isn't an appreciative trait - maybe tolerated in your bunk alone talking to your friends, but not to a leader's face. You might as well stick a knife to your jugular.

Four takes us down a spiral staircase that leads to the Pitt, which looks like a suicidal playground. There's no roof except for metal bars hooked along the ceiling, or lack thereof, allowing sunshine to filter through. The walls appear to be made of metal and there's white blocks stacked everywhere.

"This is the Pit," Four says, and turns to look at us. "The center of life here at Dauntless."

I peer over the edge and see crowds of other Dauntless members enjoying themselves down below. There's so many of them. It's like watching tiny ants converge in their nests. I never really once imagined what daily life was like at other factions. Maybe it was just too hard for me to conjure up, being so accumulated to the Candor way. But seeing it now, it gives me a different feeling than what I first anticipated. I find myself intrigued, instead of misplaced. That's a first.

Four shows us our bunks next and it's communal. Everything is, even the bathrooms. Bathtubs are lined together without any walls or type of privacy. There's no modesty. It's all so open. I don't know how I'll be able to cope with that aspect. They're actually forcing us to live together. At my old home, I never bothered to close the door when I showered because most of the time I would have the house to myself. I won't have the privilege of doing that here for the next ten weeks. It feels like a prison sentence. I don't know what they're going to have us do over the course of time, but I know it will be demanding; brutal. They'll challenge us in every way imagined. Physically, mentally, emotionally.

And it's what I want. I'm tired of living so...simply, quietly. They call us Candor loud mouths, but my family exhibits the polar opposite. I wish the term applies to us, but it doesn't. Not really. I guess that goes to show not everything is what it seems. In every faction, there will be someone who excels reverse traits from what they're born in. Either it's natural or something life had committed to change it. In my case, it's just life.

"Get changed," Four orders as he slinks from the room, leaving us mildly shocked at our quarters, but none are in the position to protest.

They leave piles of Dauntless clothes on our beds, strictly black. Mostly regular pants and long sleeves, with some tank tops for casual wear or sleep. Of course, we're also forced to change in the exact same room. I don't start stripping right away like some people do and just hesitate, unfolding the clothes slowly. I glance around, seeing a lot of bare torsos and legs. It doesn't exactly bother me, as long as they keep the last layers on. It's just my body I'm not used to flashing around. I'm not insecure about it, I just never been exposed to it, if you count changing dresses in front of my sister when I was seven. But all these boys are not my sister. If it were all girls, it would be a different story.

But there's no point in procrastinating, so slowly, I peel off my shirt, hearing more whistles go off as another female shirt sheds. I feel my cheeks redden and I tug the Dauntless clothes over my head as quick as I can. I unzip my skirt and let it fall to my ankles, thankful that the new shirt I'm supporting covers my top half, then hike up the new pants. It's more comfortable than that damn skirt and it fits snugly around my legs, though is slightly too long and drags a bit on the floor when I walk. I roll them up a few times and pin them secure with a bobby pin I keep in my old Candor wear so the cuffs don't unravel. The shoes they provide are also black and sturdy, made of a solid combat material. I feel like a new person when I tie them on, completely sheathed in ebony.

I feel like Dauntless.

We have to burn our old clothes after we finish. It doesn't surprise me, given our last displays of rules, so I fling them into the incinerator without second thoughts. I never quite liked them anyways. It was nice to switch to a fresh color. A world of black and white just isn't for me.

They whisk us away to dine right after that. When we walk into the mess hall, the room is almost completely full. Dauntless-born stare at us like we just rose from the dirt, unimpressed and I feel a strong sense of unwelcoming. I know it's not out of intimidation, but by the thought that they find us to be unworthy. To them, we're just a couple cans waiting to be crushed. There's a few spots left on some tables, but room is scarce and it's uneasy to sit next to someone who probably want me out. But I can't wither away into my cave like some scared little mouse. I joined Dauntless for a reason and no one will chase me will from it. Not even my neighbor.

I find a seat at a half full table and stake my claim. The occupants shoot me a strange look, but I brush it off and lift the mug to my lips, acting like nothing is wrong and I'm where I should be. I know that it's true, but there's always a side of you that tells you otherwise. Makes you feel worthless and incompetent. I left that part of me at Candor. I hope it doesn't follow me here.

After minutes of eating, a portion of the diners start to slam their mugs onto the tables in rapid succession, blending into a sound that mimics a bell ringing. I'm caught off guard and glance around to see what the hell is going on.

A man walks up on the balcony, calmly, and his stride carries authority. The cup slamming stops. "Initiates, stand," he commands.

We do.

"You have chosen to join the warrior faction," he continues. "Tasked with the defense of this city and all it's inhabitants. We believe in ordinary acts of bravery and the courage that drives one person to stand up for another. Respect that. Do us proud."

Everyone erupts into cheers and it's so loud, I briefly cover my ears with my hands until someone hauls me up into their arms and raises me above their heads. I panic for a second, looking down as the guy holding me begins to carefully pass me down along the crowd with the other initiates. They carry at my legs, back and arms, firm hands clutching at me everywhere, and after a moment, my body relaxes and enjoys the moment, laughing to myself because it gives me the feeling that I'm riding on a cloud.

They set us down after we glide all around the room, heads swirling with thrills and excitement. We finish the rest of our dinner and retreat back to our quarters for the night. It feels so early that I can't fall asleep. Even when I'm relaxed and dressed into sleep wear, I just stare up at the ceiling, seeing shapes in the blackness that results from the tiny speck of light the red spiral staircase gives off. I hear the slumbered breathing of everyone around me, listen to them toss and turn, and I can't help but think back on my old house in Candor. The peacefulness of my room, the hum of nature outside my window, and how easily I was able to fall asleep in that old, lumpy bed.

I can't think about it anymore. It's apart of the person I used to be, not of the person I am now. My world is not black and white. It's black and red and with pastel colors running behind my eyes. Clouds are white and not grey. I see everything differently. I'm not completely reconstructed, I know the hardest is yet to come, but I'm anxious until it does. I don't doubt my ability to succeed or fail. It's in everyone, but I can't afford to let it get to me. I know I deserve this chance, just like everyone before me and everyone that sleeps their insecurities away around the bunk.

This is my home now.

* * *

Our wake up call in the morning is anything but pleasant.

A noise that mimics pans being hit with a stick drowns our ears and we stir, groaning when the bright light flicks on, making our retinas dilate painfully. I yank the covers over my head to shield my poor eyes, not wanting to leave the bed's warmth. If Mocky was here, he'd paw at my face and meow me awake, which can be nice and incessantly aggravating at the same time.

Four's voice seeps in from the staircase. "I want everyone in the Pitt," he tells us. "Two minutes."

I lay in bed until his footsteps fade away, and take a couple of seconds to myself, keeping the blanket over my face until I knock the sleepiness from my eyes and body, then jump up to put on my clothes. The others hurry to get ready, stumbling into their uniform and cleaning themselves up in the bathrooms. I splash my face with cold water and run my hands through my hair to get it smooth and tangle free again. I always look a mess in the mornings. It's just something I have to work with.

We jog to the Pit before time is up and stand in an uneven line as Four paces the floor. He starts with an explanation on our stages of training. There are two: physical and mental, just as I assume. Both are meant to push us over the limit, to weed out the weak and keep the strong. The results ultimately decide one's future within Dauntless; who rises to leader stance and who get's stuck guarding a door.

I don't know which will be best for me.

I see Eric leaning on a wide block, not speaking until Four finishes. "The rankings will also determine who gets cut," he says coolly from his post.

"Cut?" Christina, the true mouthy girl from Candor echos, confused.

Eric stands and saunters closer. "At the end of each stage of training, the lowest ranking initiates will be leaving us."

"To do what?" A boy asks shyly.

"There's no going home to your families, so you'd live factionless."

"Why didn't we know that?" Another says.

"It's a new rule," Eric answers simply.

But none of use are too keen on it. "A new rule?" Christina repeats, unhappy. "Somebody should have told us that."

"Why? Would you have chosen differently?" Eric questions her. "Out of fear? I mean, if that's the case, you might as well get out now. If you're really one of us, it won't matter to you that you might fail. You chose us," he scans our group and his eyes fall on me, holding my gaze for an unbearably long time. I want to look away, but the intensity of his gaze is like a magnet and I'm the paper clip. "Now we get to choose you."

Something in his words resonates with me. It doesn't inspire me, make me feel good, or even fill my own head with disillusions. Failing doesn't matter to me, because if I do, it won't change a thing. What's there to go back to when you don't have a family?

So I risk it all.

We start with guns.

Four and another instructor take us out onto a desolate rooftop and arms us each with rifles and protective vests, in case a bullet somehow ricochet's off a hard surface and hits us in the chest. The gun feels foreign in my hand, smooth, surprisingly light, and the realization that one tiny squeeze of the trigger can end someone's life makes me want to drop it and never touch it again. But under the scrutiny of the instructor's, I know I need to hold it like it's made for me and I'm born for weaponry. They have to show me how it works a few times before I can fully comprehend it, but even then, the process is rocky. I aim with little to no confidence and miss the desired target with each shot.

I almost give up, and take a breather, but seeing the rest achieve the direct hit after so many misses fuels the drive in me to not stop until I make at least one. It takes a lot of time, and even more ammo, but in the end, after almost twenty firings, I hit the target, right where I'm suppose to. I smile, exhaling with relief and another emotion that feels like pride swelling in me, then sit back to give my aching trigger finger a break. It hurts when I try to uncurl it from it's awkward position and the skin all around it is red and sensitive to touch. There's nothing I can do to ease the discomfort, so I just hold it straight with my other fingers to prevent it from recoiling back into it's previous shape. Maybe I'll craft a makeshift splint when I get back to base.

So I sit and wait until Four brings us down, and he does after so much time, only to tell us to shed the jackets because we're going for a little jog. I know what he means by that. We're going to running for hours, going wherever he wants to take us and however fast he wants us to do it.

I quickly dunk my hand in ice water and pat it dry before changing into a proper clothes and shoes for our session. The icy sensation on my fingers soothes the painful throb and it gradually fades away as we head back down to the training room. I see Eric supervising a spar, but he glances at Four when he brushes past him and his gaze slides to every one of us when we follow tightly knit together. When he looks at me, I can't bring myself to hold contact for too long, unlike the last time. Something about him just makes my bones feel brittle. I duck my head and tuck a strand of hair back as I pass him.

Instead of running miles back and forth inside the limited space, Four decides to lead us back out into daylight. It makes me happy, as it's a while since I've done something I once considered relatively normal. Exercise is not uncommon in Candor. Most do it to get out out the confinement that their houses can sometimes inflict. It's therapeutic to feel the sun's warmth on your skin and the wind blowing through your hair. It gives me such a different motivation than working in the dark, cold Dauntless building, like moving out from a hollow tree into a soft bed of eagle feathers. I'm not a particularly fast runner, but I keep up with the middle and stick to the outer rim so I get a clear shot of Four and which paths he takes us. We reach almost every corner until our legs burn, and then some more. It's difficult to keep up with his quick stride and ridiculously high stamina. It's no wonder why he came in first in his class.

When we pass under a bridge, we stop when we see a group of factionless citizens making their camp. Most of them are sickly, older, and the clothes they wear barely cover their backs. They're surviving from nothing, and it makes me wonder how they made it this far. They obviously have more strength than we think, than what the faction that kicked them out thinks.

"Check it out, stiff," the boy from the rooftop jump tells Tris. I think his name is Peter. His tone is very mocking, same as the time when we had our verbal spat. "That's gonna be your new family. Go say hi." I glance over at Tris, but she doesn't say anything and something inside of me snaps. I know what I'm about to say is only going to add salt to the wound, but a part of me doesn't care.

He doesn't care either, so why should I?

I'm not afraid of him.

I lean in close to him. "Isn't that your mom over there?" I whisper, watching his expression shift from amusement to anger. He looks down at me with a prominent scowl. "Aren't you going to introduce us?" I ask, completely serious, but the temptation to chuckle is strong when he glares at me so vehemently. He's pissed. I can tell from his eyes and makes me all the more satisfied. Nobody can take what they dish.

The initiates burst into laughter at my dig and I even see Tris crack a smile, but she hides it better than the rest, lowering her head a little.

Peter's lips part to shoot something back at me, but Four puts out the flame before it can rise. "That's enough, initiate," he says, giving me an especially reprimanding look.

I don't press his warning and nod. "Sorry. Couldn't help myself."

He doesn't reciprocate that and orders us to get moving again, and we fall in line behind him once more. Tris, a couple others and I manage to keep pace with him this time, our lagging distance nipping just inches at his heels, the second wind giving us more energy and drive to runner faster, stronger. All the while, I feel someone's eyes bore into the back of my head and I know it's Peter, probably fantasizing on the ways he can break my neck or smother me in my sleep. I know what I did will only make things more tense in the training center and possibly create a conflict that I never wanted to be made. He'll take pay back on me somehow, I know it's coming. Whether it's through another sarcastic remark or in the ranks.

Either way, it's worth it.

* * *

The fighting never seems to stop.

I stand around a small encircle and watch with baited breathe as two boys go at it. They toss each other on the mat, throw kicks and punches hard enough to leave bruises and break bones. They stumble toward the edge, forcing me to inch back so they don't run me over and bring me down with them. I never seen this much amount of violence up close and I don't know how to take it. I feel like I should be supportive like the others, but I can't help but flinch every time a person's fist meets someone's cheek. It gets close to the point where I drift along the very back audience so I don't have to be up close when blood starts to flow.

The boy's fight ends quickly, a former Erudite by the name of Edward taking the win. He's tall, lean, not tremendously intimidating looking, but the amount of force he carries in a single punch states otherwise.

The celebration is short. He receives a few pats on the back before we separate into groups of two again. They make us practice our dexterity and the chance to hit our opponent right on point. Four demonstrates with the Christina, who catches on quite well. She hits elbows with him, alternating from left to right as he does the same. Apparently this is supposed to improve our striking. Doesn't seem too hard. When I'm paired with an smaller girl from Amity, I mimic what they showed us with seldom difficulty. It's much easier than everything else I endured before, so there's not much to complain for.

Compared to vigorous running and firearms, this is a drop in the ocean.

Though my arms begin to feel sore after minutes of continuous stimulation, I force myself to keep going. I know some of the initiates think I'm weak, that I'm a typical Candor loud mouth who covers up weariness by feigning strength, perseverance. And they were right at one point. But not anymore. There's a flame in me that simmers so hotly for succession I have to constantly bring myself down to prevent it from spilling over, burning everyone around me. Transferring to Dauntless is a chance I can't let wither away. My sister is out there making it on her own laurels.

I know I can too.

"First jumper," Eric announces, breaking my concentration, and we all turn to look at him. "In the ring." I glance back at Tris and she appears caught off guard, but walks toward the ring diligently. I can see the fear in her eyes. "Last jumper," Eric adds, and Molly comes forth. "Time to fight."

Molly steps into the ring and gives one unimpressed look at her opponent. "How long do we fight for?"

"Until one of you can't continue."

Four comes closer. "Or one of you concedes."

But Eric overrules him. "According to the old rules. The new rules: no one concedes." I see Four say something quiet to Eric, but it's too low for me to hear. The tension between them is so tangible. It makes me curious on what they were like during their training. I imagine nothing short of rivals.

"You'll be scored on this, so fight hard," Eric says and steps closer to the stage. He waves a hand when they stand idle. "Go!"

I stand by the brim of the ring, arms crossed with one hand lightly covering my mouth out of nervous impulse. They circle each other for a moment, neither taking shots, and Tris stumbles back outside of the ring's limits when Molly gets too close, almost bumping into my position. She catches herself and takes a glance around. Everyone stares at her like she's a martian and I can't help but feel bad for her. I smile at her apprehensively when she meets my gaze levelly, as I'm giving her silent encouragement to finish the fight, regardless if she comes out on top or not.

She takes a deep breathe and re-enters.

I hold my breathe and wince when Molly punches her in the face. Tris spins, holding her cheek and Molly grasps her in a headlock. With every punch she blows at her midriff, I feel my own pulse uptick as if I feel the same amount of pain. It's so unbearable, so difficult to watch someone get hurt like this. I want to look away, but my heart lurches in my throat when Tris is thrown to the ground. I lace my fingers together, pressing them to my lips in a silent prayer for her to get up.

_Get up._

_Get up, get up._

But she doesn't. Molly looks at Eric for a confirmation and he gives her one without words being spoken. She punches Tris in the face, knocking her out cold. She lays still, still breathing heavily but not one part of her moves. I move quickly up into the ring as soon as Molly exists and kneel down to check on her. I feel her pulse and it's still beating steadily. She's okay and I breath a sigh of relief.

"Leave her," Eric growls when I take a hold of Tris's arm and aid her to her feet, but I ignore him. He doesn't like that. "Are you deaf, initiate?"

I let Tris walk in front of me. "No, I heard you," I reply, and meet his gaze. His stare is like simmering flames, but it's not like I haven't been burned before. I turn my back on him and address Tris. "You might wanna get something cold on that," I tell her, nodding at the welt forming on her cheek.

She cradles the spot with her hand and nods. "Thanks," she rasps and scampers over to the table.

When she sits down, Eric decides to make another announcement. "Next fight," he says boastfully and I turn around fully to him. This can't be good. "Last jumper," he continues, glancing at Molly very quick before switching to me. "Second jumper."

I freeze.

_Me._

He means me.

I take a deep breath and walk into the ring. Molly stands ready opposite of me, sizing me up. I know I'm not tough competition because if she can beat down a small girl like Tris, imagine what she can do to me. Her man hands can probably crush cedar wood. She doesn't look intimidated or the slightest bit nervous. I don't either on the outside. I stay calm, cool and collected, but on the inside, I'm a crumbling building of clay. My toes curl anxiously on the dry floor and I can feel Eric's eyes shrinking me into a pebble of dust.

The tiniest draft can blow me to the wind.

Molly stalks her way toward me and I duck automatically when her fist comes at my head, but I'm not fast enough and she catches my cheekbone. I wince, and shut my eyes as pain explodes behind my forehead. It isn't like anything I've ever felt before. It's primal, like inserting a hot poker into a burn wound. The blood under my skin pulsates and I feel temporarily dizzy. It's difficult for me to stand.

Molly sees the opening and pounces on me for a headlock, but I've been expecting it from the start. I can sense her game plan and it's the same as her fight before. I can almost count it out in my head. I swerve at my left, but she counters it with a kick to my ribs, which I'm able to withstand, though with shaking knees.

But I have no advantage. I'm not strongly built or particularly tall. My hands are small and don't carry much force. I'm not something to be physically reckoned with.

Though, I can solve problems. One way or another.

Molly swings again and hits me square in the face, and my head snaps around, blood forming on my lips from a deep cut on my gum. By that time, the pain is a crackling blaze and pain makes me angry; anger makes me act stupidly. For the first time, I actually _want_ to hurt someone, to inflict agony that they inflict on others. I see red, and it boils the hotness in my veins at a breaking point so high it threatens to flood and spill over to the floor.

I stand up straighter and wipe the blood from my mouth with the back of my hand. I see the derangement in Molly's eyes and I know she thinks she has this already won, but she doesn't. Not while I'm still on my feet. I let her come to me again and wait until she's within arms length, and side step when she tries taking another jab. I strike first and punch her directly at her sternum. She stumbles backwards with a gasp, which I force her farther back with a punch to the gut. She doubles over and without thinking, I bring my knee up to meet her face one time, then add another, then one more.

That's all she can take and I watch her fall to floor, panting and bleeding from her nose. My chest heaves and the aching in my ribcage worsens from her strong kick. I wrap an arm loosely around it, hunching over slightly, but the contact makes me wince. People clap and cheer for my victory, but I don't do anything. I just study the blood painting my fingers and wonder how a color so beautiful can mean such terrible things.

"Way to go, Char," someone says and it pulls me from my trance. I glance around, realizing everyone has their sights trained on me and it makes me feel self conscience, so I turn to leave, but pause when I see that Molly is still laying on the floor.

I hesitate for a second before walking up and casually offering a hand. It's the least I can do.

Molly glares up at me, then down at my hand, too prideful.

"Are you gonna take it or not?" I say.

She dabs at the blood leaking from her nose then slowly, grabs my hand, letting go quickly once she regains her footing. She nods at me out of respect and walks out of the ring first. I follow after a moments delay, but nearly collapse on my knees when my ribcage feels like it's about to smash into pieces. I trip over my own feet, but a powerful hand curls around my forearm and keeps me balanced.

It's Eric.

"You hurt?" He asks. His grip feels like cold steel.

I shake my head.

He raises his pierced eyebrow in question. "You're holding your stomach."

I look down at myself and realize I'm still clutching my middle. It feels raw and burns like a summer's sun. "I'm fine," I say, but my voice is weak and implies the opposite.

Eric's eyes give me a once over. "Get her to the infirmary," he says to the nearest initiate and releases my arm.

"I told you, I'm fine," I bite.

He looks at me very calmly, but doesn't say anything, as if my words mean nothing, and walks away. I glower at his distancing figure and limp toward the infirmary as someone guide's me carefully so I don't take any tumbles on the way there. It turns out one of my ribs has a stress fracture and is badly bruised. The nurse can't touch the area without me whimpering in pain. I bite my lip and pressed a hand against my mouth when she applies a packet of ice to the tender spot and holds it there for a few minutes. Then she tapes a thin bandage over the fracture and tells me to take it easy for the rest of the day.

I carefully walk my way back to the training room and lean against the table where Tris treats her swollen cheek. I sit three spaces down from her and watch the others practice. It takes my mind off the throbbing in my mid riff. The nurse told me that I'd be alright if I let it heal for the day and avoid torso hits at all costs during any future fights. If the fracture worsens, they'd have no choice but to kick me out. Sitting back and doing nothing is hard enough, but at this point, I will take anything to stay.

"Alright, guys, over here," Eric says after a few minutes and strides to the ranking board. Everyone jogs after him in anticipation to see our spots, though I'm the last one to walk up as my minor injury inhibits my mobility. I don't expect my score to be very high. "Listen up," Eric continues. "Know what this board is? It's your life. We grade you every day. If you're still in the red by the end of the first stage, you're out."

I snap my gaze from him to the board and blink once in surprise.

I'm in the fifteenth slot.

I made it above the line.

* * *

During dinner, I loose my appetite halfway through and decide to retire early to my bunk and catch up on sleep. Maybe having a late bath won't be too bad either. I couldn't this morning under the gawking gaze of all the male initiates, so I had to endure another day of training with damp, clammy skin. But now that it's dark and my muscles have relaxed, I can't sleep feeling so filthy. I just have to wash up one way or another. The others are still eating so I decide it's the best time as any take a dip. I excuse myself and skip down the dark corridors, thinking and planning just in case they come back early.

As I turn a corner, I almost bump straight into someone, but catch myself in time and remain on my feet.

"Oh, sorry," I apologize, not realizing who the person is until I look at her full face.

It's Molly.

I don't say anything right away, and just offer a tentative smile, which she refuses to even acknowledge. She must be still harboring a grudge over that fight.

"You did good today," I say to break the ice. "During the fight, I mean. You almost had me," I laugh nervously afterward in hopes of easing the mood, but she doesn't answer and only narrows her eyes. I don't like the way she's looking at me. It feels...threatening. "No hard feelings, okay?" I add more seriously.

She stares at me for a second and with no change of expression, punches me in the stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! ♥


	3. Gotta Start Somewhere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "It is easy to be brave from a safe distance."  
> — Aesop

I stumble backwards, pain rippling through my torso and I can feel the spot where she swung at tremble beneath my bruising skin. I know that if she gets in a few more hits, she will break one of my ribs and I will be down for the count for good. I can't let that happen.

I _won't_ let that happen.

I side-step to the left when her fist comes soaring toward my face, and I use my right foot to sweep her leg and she falls onto her back, but is propped up by the wall, smacking her head hardly on the concrete. The fury in her eyes is evident and the arrogant smirk she wore seconds earlier is now a prominent grimace. I spread my arms out to her slightly, as if to egg her on and I see her hands clench together, fire burning in her eyes. It's opposite of what I feel. My own are frigid, slated. I've never been in a real, honest to God, fight before. The duels in the ring are limited, padded somewhat. Real fights go on until the life in one stops completely.

I don't want to kill Molly. I don't want to kill anyone.

But since we're not in the ring, I can hurt her. More than I did before.

Molly lunges for my throat and in a split second, I dodge her attack, and I know she expects it. I skid to her right and she bobbles to face me, her barefoot almost slipping on the smooth ground. My hand shoots out to grab a fistful of her hair to keep her upright, then throw a flurry of punches at her face. I don't care if I miss or do little damage. I just want her to _feel_ them. But my hold on her doesn't leave her incapacitated. She brings her knees up and slams them to my stomach, hitting my ribs twice before I fling her away out of panic for my health and edge back.

She raises her eyebrows. "Give up?"

 _Walk away_ , a voice says in my head. It sounds like my sister. I breathe heavily and wipe my damp eyebrow. _Don't risk it._

Molly smiles when I remain silent. "I knew you were weak."

The voice dies.

And I charge at her, ramming into her with so much force it sends both of us flying onto the ground. I can hear footsteps rapidly approaching us and I know it's the other initiates on their way to the bunk. When they turn the corner, they stop for a brief second, before rushing toward us like a sea wave and before I know it, hands are groping at me everywhere to pull me way from my choke hold. Molly is lifted from the ground by Edward and another boy, but she keeps her eyes trained on me and thrashes in her restraints. Christina tells me something, but I block her out. I block everything out until it's just me, the air, and the girl across from me who's just dying to wring my neck.

"Stop!" Christina exclaims when I attempt to break free. "You'll get yourself in trouble!"

"I don't care," I hiss. My words ignite the last lever within Molly and she frees herself from Edward's hold, hurling her readied fist into the air and it hits me precisely on my cheek. My head whips back and the initiate keeping me at bay ends up fumbling by the impact, dropping his arms. I take the opportunity to swing at her jaw, my knuckles cracking against the firmness of her bones. I know they will bleed and scar and my past fight should have taught me better than to act on impulse, but anger sharpens my mind and everything else feels slowed down.

I grab her hair again and punch the column of her neck, but she twists her body and kicks at my leg. I wobble, nearly loosing balance, but catch myself on my hands and pull myself up. I feel the others retracting their proximity, out of fear, and nervousness that they might get hurt trying to retain us.

"Get Four and Eric!" Someone yells and I think it's Christina, but I'm not certain.

I just wipe the blood dribbling down my lips with my sleeve and dodge another one of her punches directed at my fracture spot. I feel it ache underneath my shirt and my senses scream at me to forfeit for the sake of my physical being, but my well of pride runs too deep, and my fists meet Molly's torso with equal vigor. I know we're not fighting the way the instructor's train us. This is personal, it runs deep between our growing minds and ample bodies. It's dirty.

When her hands shoot out to grab at me, I jerk away a second too late and end up squished between her catcher's mitt hands. Her knees jab up quickly at my midsection, and I feel something pinch under my bandage. Panic surges through my veins and I rotate my body to lessen the pressure and slip free when her hands try to yank me back by my hair. I spin and punch her straight in the nose, hearing it crinkle and snap and blood starts to gush from her nostrils.

Red once again clouds my judgement and I openly take her on when she darts into me, crashing us both onto solid ground. She succeeds in mounting me, and begins lobbing lazy, vengeful punches at my head and I manage to dodge most of her attacks, protecting myself with my arms more than I am defending. I thrust my hips up when her thigh clenches dangerously close to my fractured rib and toss her onto her back, bolting up into a sitting stance, then jump to my feet. She does the same and swings for my face, but I jerk away like it's an electrical shock and catch her leg when she tries whacking my mid riff with it.

I shove it down and get in a few shots to her jaw with my bloody knuckles before someone rips me into the air and crushes my back to their muscular chest. My arms are held tightly against me in vice-like grip and I squirm slightly with discomfort.

"Don't move!" Eric's voice hisses in my ear.

I immediately stiffen.

Four is apprehending Molly, but she struggles against him until he tells her to stop. The fire still burns in both of us and our eyes lock from our muscled chains.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Four demands, glancing at both of us.

I break my glower with Molly and breath slowly through my parted lips. A part of me is disappointed in myself for loosing control and acting like a rabid animal. It isn't me. I know it isn't. But the anger was too strong of a force for me to resist. All those years of bottling up my emotions finally set free and charred up my bones and my heart; my brain and my thoughts.

"She hit me first," I pant. My voice is surprisingly soft, in tune with the emptiness that begins to settle over my mind and I go completely limp in Eric's cage. He feels so sturdy, like a boulder.

Four looks down at Molly in his arms. "Did you?"

She nods, lowering her gaze. "Sorry." The apology sounds anything but sincere.

By the tone of Eric's voice, I know he's not happy with us. "Conflicts are settled in the ring. Not anywhere else." The anger feels different from him. It comes off in overwhelming bursts.

"I'm sorry," I whisper. All I want is for him to let me go. The blood on my knuckles drips onto the floor and I know my ribcage has gotten worse.

"What are gonna do with us?" Molly asks after a moment.

Four looks at Eric and they share a silent thought.

"You'll be taken to Max," Eric says. "He'll decide what to do with you after you tell him what you've done."

I swallow thickly and nod. "Can I get down now? I won't try anything. I promise." I tentatively gaze up at his pierced face and find him staring intensely at me, but he lifts his eyes to Four, who just nods and lets his arms fall from Molly.

Eric hesitates for a minute, but slowly unwraps his arms from my waist and sets me on my feet. He keeps a firm hand on my arm when my knees shake and the throbbing in my ribs threatens my ability to stand and pulls me along the corridor with Four bringing up the rear with Molly in tow. The crowd of initiates part seamlessly for us. It feels like a walk of shame.

Eric's hand is large, callused and _so_ warm. It makes the kink in my gut and the soreness at my knuckles dull, like a tiny dose of morphine.

I'm not sure what to expect they guide us into a wide office, a black desk perching in the center. Technical equipment is hooked up in the back, along with two big computers, showing footage of the perimeter around the compound. Security purposes, I guess. Two chairs sit empty in front of the desk, white folders and papers neatly placed on the surface, and lounging on the main seat is the same man that addressed us on the first day in the cafeteria. He appears surprised when we walk in and closes a folder, pushing it aside. He must take care of the business side of Dauntless; the part no other leader wants to touch.

"What is it this time?" Max asks and folds his hands in front of him.

"Caught these two fighting," Eric answers and pushes me forward. My fists clench together in anger, and I fantasize in my head punching his arrogant face.

"Out of the ring?" Max presses.

Eric nods.

"It's always the transfers," Max says solemnly, humor flashing behind his eyes, but it doesn't effect his features. He looks at me, collective and calculating. He has a very aged, experienced disposition, like a Chemistry teacher that's inhaled too many fumes. "Who struck first?"

I open my mouth to speak, but Molly beats me to it. "Me."

"Why?" Max says.

Molly lowers her head. "She...she won our fight."

"So you decided to ambush her when she least expected it?"

She nods once. Fours stands quietly behind her, arms crossed. He's not looking at Max, just gazing at a nick in the cracked floor. He must be bored.

"And how did that turn out? Did she still win?" Max further questions. His eyebrows lift at Molly's silence. "I see. So...what do you think I should do?"

My eyes narrow. This isn't the response I'm expecting. "What?" I blurt.

"Since you both can decide when it's okay to fight on your own, tell me, what do you think your punishment should be?" His tone sounds like a unsolvable math problem.

It's a trick question and I know better than to bait right into it. The wrong answer will be met with the worst punishment imagined. Scrubbing the co-ed shower tiles or rinsing the boys' stalls, maybe. Or worse.

A factionless life.

I try not to grimace at the mental picture and shrug when when Max waits for my response. "Whatever you want us to do," I say.

He studies me and rubs his chin thoughtfully, alternating his gaze from Molly and I few times before clearing his throat and leaning back into his chair. He looks so comfortable and at ease, as if the situation doesn't even nip at his concerns at all. Maybe he deals with this kind of stuff all the time. He must've done this for years. I can see all the time and commitment he put into this faction in his eyes, like little white lines in a sky of blue dust.

"Alright," he hums, folding his hands together. "A months work of maintenance. Weapons will be cleaned and prepared every night before lights out. Knives will be sharpened and oiled as they come. Whoever wants to take up the tasks will be decided amongst the two of you."

"That's not much," Molly observes tersely.

"Then your job should be easy," Eric snaps back. I barely realize he was hovering over me the whole time. "You play by the rules and you won't get kicked out. It's that simple."

I turn my head up at him, craning my body slightly. He's so tall, having almost a foot reach on me, and glares at Molly from his spot, but she doesn't have the nerve to return the gaze. I don't blame her.

Molly doesn't argue after that - nobody would risk speaking out against someone like Eric. Unless they're not intimidated by him, which I find difficult to imagine. I'm sure Max and Four are occasionally shaken up by his rather intense and blunt disposition.

"I'll do the knives," I say.

Max nods. "Fair enough," he turns to Molly. "That leaves you with guns."

She keeps her mouth shut, and by the perturbed look on her face, I can tell she's not happy with the her assigned job, but it's the best they could have given us. They let us off easy. If we don't keep our fists to ourselves next time, we won't make it past day three. The common rabble isn't a place I want to end up.

Max dismisses us, but requests that Four and Eric stay behind so he can speak with them. My instincts tell me to cling by the door while they converse, but I know if I get caught eavesdropping, I'll loose my head that they'll probably use for wall decorations. So I force myself to walk out the door, swallowing thickly when I hear voices pick up behind me. Who could they be talking about? Me? Molly? Or something else completely irrelevant to our situation?

I hope it's the latter.

Molly and I trek back to the dorms in thorny silence. I walk two paces behind her, uneasy and a little paranoid about giving my back to her. I know she's not dumb enough to attack me again after the instructors clear warning, but I can't help but be overly cautious. She might not be able to jump me anymore, but her surly group of friends can. I can't take any chances with either of them.

"What happened?" A boy quickly asks as soon as we cross over the threshold. I think his name is Will.

I shrug, not bothering to answer as I retreat to my cot.

But he sure is persistent. "What did they do to you?"

A beat passes. "Nothing," I finally say and kick one foot up on the rung of my bed to unlace my boots. "They're just making us do some maintenance after training hours."

"That's it?" A tall, lanky boy asks. He looks a student that was in my English class, but I'm not the best at remembering faces.

I nod and sit gingerly on my bed, wincing when my ribs throb once. I lay a hand an inch above the area, rubbing gently to dilute the pain.

Molly trudges back to her bunk where Peter and another initiate sit. "Yeah, for six whole weeks," she mutters and I catch her glaring at me from across the room.

I snap my head at her. "We wouldn't be in this position if you hadn't sucker punched me."

"I said I was sorry," she retorts curtly.

And it didn't sound genuine, I think to myself, but keep my lips locked. I don't want to get into anymore quarrels with her, whether it be physical or verbal. We'll just have to avoid each other from now on until the trials end. I don't know how difficult that will be. We're already forced to live together and see each other almost sixteen hours of the day. I guess I'll just have to pretend like she's apart of the walls. A quiet, unseen object, as hard as that will be to imagine for somebody like her. But to stay in the game, there's nothing I won't be willing to try, even if it means holding an open hand to the enemy. I'll just keep a knife in my other hand and hide it behind my back.

I roll over on my side and press my cheek to the cool pillow, closing my eyes when conversations flutters up again. Their voices blend together like the hum of a computer drive. It feels like time stops and I'm stuck in a circular tube of plastic, yet everyone else around me continues to live. It's a peaceful state, like a chemically induced dream. I lay there for a while and just breathe, until the springy mattress becomes too harsh on my back and I eventually walk out.

* * *

My ribs are killing me.

I spend the next two hours laying on a infirmary bed, resting my fracture and icing my red knuckles. The nurse checks my stomach again and notes that my ribs aren't broken, though the stress fracture is slightly more severe, but will heal if I don't do much for an entire day or two. Unfortunately for me, that's not an option. I have knife duty in ten minutes and all of training tomorrow. I stretch my arms over my head, yawning a bit, then carefully hop down from the medical cot. I wince when my bare feet hit the cold floor, curling my toes so I won't have to endure it's icy feel, then pad over to the sink to get a drink for my parched throat. Once my thirst is sated, I depart to the training room.

It's completely empty.

Very few lights are turned on, but the ones that are give off enough light for me to maneuver around without tripping over myself. Two crates full of throwing knives are set for me on top of the table with a whetstone and oiling cloth. I take one crate, pile the whetstone and cloth on top and place it on the floor. Standing for so much time won't take a positive toll on my ribcage, so I sit crossed legged and get to work. It takes me in minute or two to figure how exactly to use the large stone and even though the knives are considered dull, they're plenty sharp to cut me.

After sharpening thirty of them, the pads of my fingers are lined with tiny nicks, like paper cuts. One goes into my pinkie finger and bleeds onto a blade, but I wipe it away with the cloth, cursing softly when a droplet stains my pant leg. I finish one crate and sit back to survey how many more there are left in the untouched bundle. There are about fifty or so remaining. If I really hurry, I can get them all done within an hour and still have time to bathe before bed. The others will probably be in their bunks by then or go out to the upper levels. I might have to wrap a towel around myself at all times, in case of prying eyes.

I know it will be difficult to find time to center myself. There's so much noise here and it's so different from the quiet zen my old house gave me. I'm not sure if there's even such a thing as silence here. Peace. If there is, it's not openly projected. It's nice sometimes to be around great life and energy, after spending so much time alone, but the fear of displacement is creeping up on me again and I don't know if I can stop it. Throwing myself in a crowd will only make it worse and being alone will only kick me back into old habits. I know I can be rebuilt...I just don't have all the right tools.

After about twenty minutes, I hear heavy footsteps pound their way toward me and assume it's Max or Four coming to check on me or tell me to hit the bunks. I scramble to stand up just in case my time limit is up and I'll be forced to pack it away. I quickly toss all the knives into the crates, flinching when I grab some by the blade and accidentally cut myself. Luckily, it's not too deep and blood drips on the floor instead of the newly cleaned handles. I really don't want to start the process all over again.

"Almost done," I tell whoever is coming.

The footsteps stop right behind me. So close that I can hear them breathing. "You missed one."

I tense.

It's Eric.

I glance at the lone knife I left on the floor and put it back into it's proper place, then carefully rise to my feet so I don't strain a rib or two. The cores of my knees ache, but it takes my mind off the fragile state of my ribcage, and I'm able to walk on my own without much complaint.

"Thanks," I say without looking at him and lift the crate on top of the table. My palms are riddled with dust and shining with oil, so I dry them on my slacks.

Eric looms over me like some kind of dark sentinel and I have to crane my neck up pretty high just to meet his tumultuous gaze equally, though it's obvious we're not on the same playing field whatsoever. He knows he's intimidating and uses it to his advantage, which makes me ponder why he's approaching me. What does he want?

"Enjoying your punishment?" He asks, and it's hard for me to tell if this is his way of playing around. He's a puzzle I have no method of solving.

I smile without humor. "Oh, yeah. It's great."

Eric nods and his eyes glass over. "That was a bold thing you did," he says thoughtfully. "Stupid, but bold."

"I'm stupid for defending myself?" I say.

"No," he replies, voice lilted and steps closer. Our chests are inches away from touching. "You're stupid for defending yourself under the wrong circumstances. You could've been kicked out for that."

"I thought Dauntless was all about bravery."

"Stupidity isn't bravery. I thought you would know that, but then again you _are_ from Candor."

My hands clench into fists, but I let that last comment go unaddressed. "She came at me first. I wasn't going to let her get away with it," I say, growing frustrated that no one seems to understand where I'm coming from. "She could've permanently injured me, and you know it."

Eric stares at me for half a second, silent, then roughly shoves me back, pushing his monstrous hands against my shoulders. I fall back against the table, my heart skipping in surprise. The sense of alarm brightens my instincts and kicks my mind back into control.

"What are you-" I try to say, but he does it again, harder, and instead of frightening me, I'm getting angry. There's nothing I want to do except slug him in the face.

And that's not a good sign.

He sees it. "Am I pissing you off?" He says, and catches my forearm in his grasp when I try to slap his touch away. He twists my arm painfully, making me cringe and and locks his free hand around my throat firmly, but not hard enough to suppress my breathing. He's no Molly. His assaults are watered down, but carry an unimaginable power. He can fatally wound me, if he wants to, but for some reason he's holding back the velocity. His eyes gleam over with something that looks like satisfaction. I'm sure he can read the emotion in my eyes, taste the poison in his mouth. "Hit me."

"What?" I gasp. My hands rest at the broad planes of his chest in an attempt to push him away, but the effort is futile and probably feet like balls of cotton being tossed at him.

He releases his grip from my neck, then curls both hands around my shoulders, yanking me close so we're inches apart. His shirt smells like gun powder and grenade smoke. "How do you expect to be one of us when you can't defeat your opponent?" He questions and his eyes are frigid. "Hit me."

I don't hesitate.

I bring my fist up and steer it toward his jaw, but he catches it inches away with his hand and squeezes it in his stone grasp, showing that he's in control. "Wrong," he tells me simply, and throws my hand back to my side. "Anger won't win your fights. It's your strength; the will to survive." He steps away and raises his voice an octave. "Try it again and do it right."

I don't move, and just look at him pensively, hands clenched so tightly that I don't even feel the sting of my finger nails digging into my skin.

He raises his eyebrows when I stay still and spreads his hands in a clear challenge. "Well? Come on."

"Are you gonna tell me what this is for?" I demand.

"Figure it out," he answers, uncaring.

I attempt another hit at his face, but he catches it and throws it away like an empty can. Body shots seem impossible with him, but everyone has a weakness. Even he knows that. I rub my sore wrists as he stares at me calmly, critical and every sort of skilled. He'll be expecting nothing but sloppy punches so I know in order to come close to besting him, I need to pull something unthinkable. Something he won't see coming.

I plant my feet and swing at him hard, aiming for the crook of his neck, a universal sensitive spot, but he catches it again.

"Wrong," he says and with a tiny movement, sweeps my legs out from under me and sends me sprawling on my back. The rear of my head ticks with pain. "Up," he orders and steps backward one pace, muscles shifting under the black shirt he wears.

I rise to my feet, dusting my hands on my knees and try to keep my spine straight. Eric stands and waits, watching me closely, a peculiar glimmer in his eyes that makes my teeth grit.

He's _enjoying_ this, I realize.

God, I hate him.

I hate every inch of him. I hate his voice, eyes, scent and that stupid smirk when he knows he's right about something...everything about him makes my body hot with rage. I never wanted a knife or even a gun in my hands as badly as I do at this moment.

I kick my leg up, aiming for his torso, but he locks it firm in his hand, twisting it slightly to the left. My body reacts quicker than my brain, overriding the process of thought, and I jump. My body rotates in the air and crashes my right foot against his temple. He jerks back, keeping a tight hold of my ankle and brings me down with him as he tumbles to the floor with a solid thud. He cushions my fall, slumping me on top of him, legs slung on either side of his hips. I brush the hair away from my eyes and look into his heated gaze.

His breathing is slow, chest rising and dropping at gradual intervals. He feels like molded marble, but has the warmth of a freshly lit fireplace, and his eyes stare at me with a quiet gleam; hazy grey with a touch of northern ocean blue. They're beautiful.

I sit up so we're not as close and in each others face. Just from our position, someone can walk in and get the wrong message. As much as he angers me with his aggressive nature and condescending questions and the arrogant raise of his eyebrows when knows someone is afraid of him...I actually learned a valuable lesson from him: Don't trust anybody. Not even my neighbour.

I crawl off his taut body once he releases his hands from the back of my knees, rolling onto my side. He stands up swiftly once he's free of my weight holding him down and lightly runs a hand through his cropped hair, smoothing it into place. I breathe heavily, watching him like a mouse cowering from a larger predator and wonder how the hell this all happened. How could two people go from basic conversation to flat out fighting? Somehow we did.

Eric glances down at me after a minute, and slowly extends a hand. I can't imagine how many people he'd hurt and women he touched with those fingers. I shudder at the thought and stand up on my own without taking his hand. He looks so smug, as if he's telling me that he won our scuffle. What's even worse is that I know he did. There wasn't one chance for me to ever best him. He's a leader, after all, and leaders are something sort of a benchmark.

He straightens up and crosses his arms. The muscles in his biceps flex by the smallest movement and I try to keep my cheeks from flushing, but I can't control the effect he physically has over me.

He's so handsome.

It will be so much easier to hate him if he was completely unappealing, and not just personality wise.

"Maybe you're not completely hopeless," Eric cites, eyes filling with ice, then strides past me. His shoulder lightly grazes mine. "Get some sleep."

I answer without looking back at him. "So you're not going to tell me what this was for?"

No reply. His footsteps storm out of earshot until all I hear is silence.

My hands flex, making fists then stretching my fingers for long periods of time. My knuckles feel like dry screws, stiff and difficult to rotate. My mind is still jumpy, not yet slowing down with how the rest of my body feels. Every part feels beaten, drained of blood and nerves and I'm left with nothing to walk on except hollow bones and a failing heart.

The length of my arms where he touched me burns. I swear I can still smell him, even after he's long gone. Smoke, and musk, and the bitter sweet aroma of aftershave all mixed into one. It drowns my nostrils and makes me shut my eyes tight.

I really need that bath now.

* * *

When I finally go back to my bunk, I don't hesitate to gather a handful of fresh clothes and run myself a bath. While the water warms, I sit at the edge of the tub, checking over my shoulder every now and then to see if another initiate is playing possum for a free show. But they all lay on their stomachs, faces buried in their pillows and snore soundly. In a way, I have the room to myself. I contemplate switching on a shower head instead, as it's quicker and more practical, but then it leaves me considerably exposed. And it doesn't help that the tile mark offs are positioned overlooking the bunks. It's almost begging to be seen. At least with the bath tubs, I'll be covered. Testing the water flow with the tips of my fingers, I find that it's hot, a little too hot and quickly yank my hand back before I can scald myself. The water steams, so I undress slowly, giving it time to cool a bit, then step in carefully when it drops a few degrees. I wince when my bruises and sore patches of skin come in contact with the heat, but settle comfortably against the tub, neck deep in the soothing effects.

My hair fans out. I close my eyes and slid further down until I'm completely submerged, my whole body taking up the length of the tub. My breathing halts until a knot forms in my chest and painfully juts against my breast plate, fighting to break free for air. Faces of people I once knew flashes behind my eyes. My mother, my father, my sister's smile that resembles a shark after it inhales the smell of blood in the ocean. Each one I see every night before my subconscious is taken to sleep, but one is new and surprising. Scary, even.

I see Eric.

I feel his breath blow across my nose, his hands on my skin, very large and warm but rough, and it sends my heart pounding and stomach flipping. My eyelids burst open and I shoot up in the water, droplets splashing up and dribbling on the tile. I take a deep breath and run a soaking hand over my face. It felt so real...seeing him in my head, as if he was in the room with me. My knees tremble so I decide that it's probably time for me to exit. There's a dry towel hanging over the end of the tub so I grab it and wrap it tightly around myself, holding the top together with one hand as I steady myself up and over the edge.

When I'm dry and dressed, I collapse on the bed, laying flat on my back. The bath makes me feel fresh and renewed, but unable to rest. My muscles still ache and there's tension in my shoulders that I know won't go away for weeks. The other initiates sleep quietly around me, their breathing slow and exaggerated, oblivious to what happened in the training room. They'll figure it out in the morning, once they see the bags under my eyes and scabbed knuckles. But I know I can't disclose every detail. They'll assume it's another fight I got into with Molly or a harsh punishment Max sentenced upon me. But that's not what's keeping me from sleep. My mind keeps darting back to the warmth of Eric's body.

The feel of his hands are permanent on my skin.

* * *

Waking up each morning grows more difficult.

My mind is a blur. The only time I remember my altercation with Eric the previous night is when I feel my sore knuckles while washing up and a tingling ribcage that reminds me that I'm one kick away from permanent injury. I have to remind myself that it was real and not some fabrication my stressed mind made up to psych me out, make me doubt myself and my capability to change. I know that if I keep crippling myself mentally, I will never be strong enough for Dauntless. The fire that glows in me will simmer into poison and kill my self sense of worth, smother my conscience until I'm nothing but dry bone and marrow.

I didn't sleep at all. The clinical numbness of my body and brain is too much to be fictitious. My shoulders still carry a burden by the weight of Eric's hands and my skin raises goosebumps as if he's watching me still. His fight left a mark on me. And all for what? Was it just a test to see how strong I really am? Or a way to get under my skin, to make me quit? Well, I won't. It's going to take much more of a beating to make me withdraw like the coward they expect me to be, and maybe not even that. I already gave too much into nothing to just back down.

It takes a few extra minutes for me to change into proper clothing than usual. Each movement I make is gradual and careful. I can't risk getting hurt more than I already am, but in Dauntless, life or death situations seem to come with every hour. I guess it's just another perk I have to get used to. Though I still dread the day's training session. The sparring mat will be back-breaking to go through again, knowing that teacher-student violent trysts are not always protocol. I hear girls whisper behind me as we change into appropriate attire. They're comparing the likes of our two vastly different leaders, as if they're back in school.

"He's kind of scary...but hot," a light haired girl murmurs. I think her name is Kim. "I wonder what he was like when he was our age." From their word choice, they can only be talking about Eric.

I pull a black long sleeve over my head and pause when I roll it down past my waist, freezing once Four is mentioned. "I wish I was born eight years ago. Imagine being in the same class as Four and Eric."

"Don't give your hopes up. I hear Four is sweet on someone else."

The other girl gasps. "Really?"

Her bunk mate shrugs. "That's what the birds say."

"At least there's still Eric," the girl giggles and switches tank tops.

Their chat reminds me of Colette and I. When she entered the seventh grade, she grew infatuated with a boy named Cameron Nelson and wouldn't stop talking about him. It drove my parents and I crazy. It irritated me to the point where I camped outside of our bedroom so I wouldn't have to hear her blither and blather before bed. The memory makes me smile faintly and choke back a few chuckles. As hard as it is for me to admit, I miss those days. I wish I can recapture them somehow in a glass bottle, and pop the cork open whenever I want so I could relive the memories. But I can't. But I remember them - and that's enough. It has to be.

I kick up a foot on the bed to lace my shoes together, shaking my head to clear my thoughts. I don't need distractions about something that no longer exists.

But the girls hear my stifled chuckles and turn toward me. "What?" They demand, thinking I'm laughing at them.

I shrug and stand up. "Nothing. I just don't see the appeal."

They look at me like I'm crazy. "Uh, have you _seen_ Eric?"

"Yeah," I answer curtly, and smooth my hair in a braid so it won't get in the way while I train. "I think he's a jerk." They roll their eyes and go back to the conversation, like my input was an echo in the wind. If they were in my shoes the other night, I guarantee they would be singing a different tune.

I guess to any person he's captivating, but in reality, he has the personality of a venus flytrap.

We still have an extra minute until training starts, so I make a quick dash to the mess hall for one of the warm muffins they serve every morning. My stomach is like an empty drum and I know it won't be good if I go on through the day without anything to eat. The cafeteria is half full when I walk in, mostly filled with Dauntless born initiates. They give me a peculiar glance as I stride past, like I don't belong in the compound, let alone anywhere near them. But my mind isn't settled on them. It's on the muffin tins I see on one of the tables. My stomach grumbles in response. There's three flavors; chocolate, apple cinnamon, and blueberry.

Only two of the chocolate remain, so I grab one, peel back the white wrapper and take a tentative bite from the edge. My eyes shut as the sweet taste of cocoa melts on my tongue. I can't remember the last time I ate chocolate - Candor was never big on the dessert flavor. They opt more for soft ice cream, usually in simple tangs. Given their mind set of seeing everything as black and white, it doesn't surprise me that they dine so narrowly.

I jog my way to the proving grounds, taking bites from the muffin cup with every two steps. By the time I walk in, there is nothing but crumbs left and I feel a few sticking to the corners of my mouth. I push the back of my hand against my lips to wipe away the chocolatey mess, glancing down at myself to see if any smudged my shirt. But luckily, I'm clean. When I look back up, my foot snags into a crack in the pavement and a loose balance for a split second, the grey flooring dawning closer and closer. My chest constricts with panic before someone puts their arm around my back, supporting my weight and keeping me upright.

"Whoa," a masculine voice says, above my ear. "You alright there?"

I look up at my savior. The boy helping me is someone I haven't seen before. Cute. Brown haired and baby faced. He must be a Dauntless-born. "I think so," I answer and brush a strand of hair from my eyes. "Thanks."

His arm falls from my waist. "I'm Brandon."

"Charlotte."

"You sure you're okay?" He probes.

I nod and place a hand on my stomach. The zone over my fracture pulses a bit. I really need to be careful. That spill could have been nasty and effectively killed whatever chances I have left of making through initiation. My days are already numbered as it is. "My ribcage is a little hurt, but it's nothing major."

"Can you walk?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine," I say and smile. "Thank you."

"At least let me help you to the ring," he offers and slides his arm around my waist again.

His hand is warm and big, resting a space below my hip. The top of my head hits an inch above his collar bone. I'm not used to such close contact, but I'm in no shape to be shying away from help. He acts as a human crutch and walks with me to the training ground. We stop right behind the others as they gather in front of Four and Eric. The latter notices the two of us through a partial gap and his eyes lock on Brandon's arm around my waist. His jaw clenches, but he doesn't appear angry. I can't really tell what he's thinking. Like always.

Brandon relinquishes his grip after a moment and smiles. "You a transfer?" He inquires.

I nod. "From Candor."

"I hear they're pretty tame. What made you leave?"

I think carefully before I answer him. I don't want to give away too much. Not too long ago, I was living under their rooftops, following their jurisdiction. Betrayal isn't something I can easily pull against biological blood, but at the same time, I want people to know that every faction isn't all it's painted to be. I'm sure it's the same way with Dauntless, but as far as I know, they acknowledge faults. Candor wraps them in decorative paper and pretends it's something to be cherished when it's not. "I was sick of the uncommunicative lifestyle," I say at last.

Brandon raises his eyebrows at that. Uncommunicative and Candor do not belong in the same sentence together, let alone anywhere near each other. I guess no one's ever said it except now. There's a first for everything.

Before Brandon can respond, another boy calls his name, waving an arm in the air. "Well, it sounds like you picked the right place," he says a final time, and winks at me before jogging back to his side of the proving grounds. I was right. He is a Dauntless-born.

I stand there stupidly, not knowing how to react with a boy flirts with me. Did he flirt with me? I'm not even sure.

As I look back to our instructors, I see Molly giving me a very cold look from my peripheral vision. She's standing with Peter and another boy with copper colored hair. Her anger isn't anything I haven't felt before, but it confuses me on why I'm still the bearer of target. We both got punished; I'm paying for my crimes as much as she is. If not more, given my fresh bruises branding both of my shoulders and back. Although, luckily my shirt is long enough to disguise them. I hope they'll fade soon. Embracing battle scars is difficult when everyone around you is pining for your loss. I want to feel proud that I stood up to Eric, but being in the same room with him makes my stomach quiver. I don't feel put together in his presence. Leaders are supposed to encourage us.

He just makes me malfunction.

Four and Eric are standing side by side, albeit the tension is thick. Four has his arms crossed while Eric has his hands are clasped behind his back, appearing calm and collected. Almost too calm for someone like him. When my gaze meets the elder tattooed man's, I immediately look away, directing my gaze at Four instead, as he explains the game plan for the day. Spars will be resumed as regular with the most recent victor taking the first fight of the day. This is part that I have been dreading. I know if I'm thrown into another fight, it could very well be my last, but there was so many other victors over the last couple days so there is a possibility that it won't be me going in. At least, that's what I can only hope.

So when Eric calls the names of who will go head to head, I cross my fingers behind my back, hoping I'm not one of them.

"First fight," Eric announces. His eyes sweep over me before settling over the boy with copper hair. "Charlotte versus Drew."

My stomach drops. I feel color drain from my cheeks and heat rush to my temples. The strain in my ribcage pulses, but not from pain. It's from the dawning realization that there will be a good chance of me becoming factionless. I don't know what to think. A part of my brain shuts off.

Beating Molly was a struggle. But going up against a boy with higher velocity and strength will not work equally in my favor. The stakes are stacked high against me. I don't know if I can make it through this, but I have to try. So I take a deep breath, tuck back my hair and pad up the steps to the center of the ring as the others crowd around it. Peter and Molly are close to the edge, whispering and watching me closely. Drew is their buddy, so I know they'll be pining for him to pummel me even worse than what I did to Molly. Maybe he will. Or maybe he'll end up like his pal. Lying on the floor with a busted nose. That's what I'm shooting for.

"What are you waiting for?" Eric grumbles as Drew and I just glare at each other. "Quit standing around and fight."

Drew hoists up his fists and stalks toward me slowly, a lopsided grin on his chapped lips. "Come on, sweetheart," he whispers. "One kiss before I bruise those pretty lips."

I scoff and shuffle toward the left. I won't let him corner me. "You'll be kissing the bottom of my foot when I smash your face in."

Drew's eyes harden and his fist comes soaring toward my cheek. His swing is similar to Molly's, making it a little easier for me to predict, so a quick right duck of the head hinders me free of his choppy punches. But he pops his foot forward and kicks my leg in, sending me flat on my back. I yelp, pain pricking at the base of my skull and I open my eyes just in time to see his foot coming down on my stomach, seconds away from impact. I roll out of the way, wincing when his foot makes an audible smack on the ring floor and I feel it shudder underneath me. The back of my head still hurts, but I can't let it effect my timing, so I quickly jump to my feet and pivot around to face him so I'm not left open for surprise attacks.

He whirls around, freckled features distorted with fury and sends another punch flying my way. I skid to the left, but a second too late and it grazes my cheekbone, making me stumble back and almost lose balance. My heels nearly touch off the edge. Panic wells up in my chest. Control is slipping and I can't let that happen. I can't lose.

I throw a punch right at his sternum and smile when it lands with a successful thump against his chest plate. He stumbles back, gasping for air and for a short second, his hands fall from their protective stance. I kick my right foot up and it hits his outer thigh. His leg almost gives out, but he surprisingly stays on his feet and slugs me in the gut, centimeters away from my fracture spot. Alarm floods through my system. I back up two paces, one hand to my throbbing stomach. I can't let him score anymore shots there. It's too risky. But I know I can't play it safe by keeping distance. That won't make me win and it certainly won't make the instructors happy. All I can do is rely on my reflexes and hope that he shows a vulnerability spot. Everyone has one.

Mine is easier to locate.

I hear Peter and Molly holler something encouraging at Drew, but I don't catch what they say and duck when the red head's fist comes at my jaw. I feel eyes bare into the back of my head and I'm not sure who it is. Everyone around me becomes statues. Unmoving and inactive, so it's just me and my opponent before me. I don't need the distractions. I can beat this boy if I concentrate hard enough and pull all the right pins. I _can_. Eric's words reiterate in my head, so prominently it feels like he's close to me, whispering them in my ear. A shiver ruptures my spine and I blink once to erase the thoughts of him from my mind. He's a hindrance to my concentration. Everything is and I need to ignore it.

Drew aims for my face again, which I'm able to counter and sock him in the jaw with a punch of my own. He groans and spits out blood coating his tongue. He must've accidentally bit himself, or the collision broke the skin on his gums. The anger flickering behind his eyes quickly heightens to hate, directed all at me. He stalks toward me with white knuckled fists, forcing me to circle around like we're playing a children's game, rather than beating the consciousness out of the other. He licks his lips and shoots another jab at my stomach and it hits right below my bust. I wince, tripping back a step and nearly fall off the edge, but catch myself by firmly planting down my left foot. Drew seizes the moment of diversion and kicks my stomach in the same spot, sending onto the ring with a noisy tumble. I land on my side, tiny black stars dotting my vision, then prop myself up with my arms and crawl back one space when Drew advances on me.

 _Get up_ , my mind whispers. _Get up get up GET UP._

My knees bend and straighten, carrying me up fluidly to stand, but that kick screwed up something in my head and leaves me mentally disheveled. I don't automatically acknowledge him closing in on me and backhanding me so hard it feels like my eye socket is about to pop out. My hands fly up to touch the spot. It's blazing, as if someone peeled back the top layer of skin and lit the muscle and scar tissue on fire. Tears prickle at the corner of my eyes from the pain. My stress fracture was agony. But this...I can't even begin to describe this amount of pain; the natural strength from a boy's attack. I swallow the knot of discomfort in my windpipe and try to dodge another one of his hits, but skid a moment too late and he catches me with a kick to my side. I fall onto my back, my head yelling at me to jump and start swinging even if it's like a mad blind man. I can't just throw in the towel because of a boy's physical advantage and speed. My fracture is still on the cusp of recovery, but I won't look like a quitter.

If losing the fight honorably means getting knocked out by one of Peter's cronies and staying in the game all the while, then that's what I'll do.

Drew's foot comes soaring down on and my hands fly out to clutch his arch, yanking him down on the mat with me. Maybe if I get him on ground level with me, I'll be able to turn the tables and make a tooth of his loose or break a blood vessel in his nose.

But the worst thing possible happens.

He collapses on top of me. His weight crushed me onto the ring floor. My lungs tighten with pressure. This is not a good position for me. Now he has full guard and I'm completely defenseless. I bring my knees up to smack his abdomen, which he takes with a few grunts, but manages to straddle my chest with his thick legs. I'm effectively pinned down, not able to move an inch. His fists descend down on my face, targeting my jaw and scoring a couple jabs at my left eye. I bring my forearms up like the instructors taught us to protect myself, but the defense is futile. Blood coats the roof of my mouth and I feel my left eye begin to swell. Vision becomes cloudy, but I refuse to stop moving. Even as my head bounces off the mat and the vigorous assaults continue, I force my eyes open. They can't fall asleep. Losing a fight is one thing; having the consciousness kicked out of me is entirely different. Something that Drew nor his friends will never take away.

When Drew propels his fist back to bring in down again, a voice erupts. "Enough!" It's Eric. He sounds livid. "She's finished."

Drew glances at him, fist still suspended in mid air, then slowly lowers it down to his side. He seems hesitant, disappointed even. I guess he really wanted to beat me into a pulp. I almost smile right there on the floor. Eric robbed him of that goal. That is the only thing I will ever thank him for.

"Get off me," I hiss at the copper haired kid, shoving at his bulking shoulders.

Drew glares hotly, pushing his weight off me and mutters an insult that I fail to hear as he strides off the ring toward his grinning group of buddies. I take my time sitting up, wiping the sweat from my brow and carefully inching up so I don't put any strain on my ribs or make the throbbing in my eye worse. An initiate whose name I don't know comes up after a minute to help me on my feet, guiding me off the ring, and another hands me an ice packet to nurse my wounds. A part of me feels weak to have all these people catering to my loss, but kindness is quality that appears to be scarce within Dauntless, so I decide to take the trait in appropriate doses whenever I can. Being brave doesn't mean you have to be cruel and heartless. I thank the initiates for their assistance and press the cool compress to my eyelid, tracing my swollen bottom lip with my free hand. Another fight ensues while I gain some momentum back. It's between two boys this time. One of them is Edward.

I don't have to guess the winner.

Eric waltz up to me two minutes into the match. "How are you feelin'?"

"Fine," I say guardedly, taking off the ice pack for a second so I can see him clearly. This isn't like him. Why does he care if I'm okay or not? "Why?"

He looks at me for a long time, searching my eyes for something he probably won't find. "Go," he says, ignoring my question. His voice is huskier than usual. I feel a rapture in my spine. "Get a drink." He turns back to the fight and crosses his arms. The muscles in his biceps flex and I pray he can't see the flushing of my face from his peripheral vision. Being so close to him does dangerous things to my body. Things I hope he never realizes.

Though his suggestion sounds like a good one.

I shuffle tentatively past him and quietly slip out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> In case anyone was wondering, I'm trying to do a combination of both Book and Movie Eric. I honestly adore both versions of him and couldn't bring myself to choose between the two, so I thought: why the hell not?
> 
> Anyways, I hope it's coming out decent.


	4. Lockstep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “You have to find the right distance between people. Too close, and they overwhelm you, too far and they abandon you.”  
> — Hanif Kureishi

I can't feel my face.

The cold water stings when it slurps past my bloodied bottom lip, stained a faded cherry red. My right cheek swells with heat, an aching pain residing under the skin from an inevitable bruise, blood pulsing hotly. Most of my upper body feels numb, lifeless as a severed limb. When I lift up my shirt to inspect the damage, a portion of my waist is sprinkled with black and blue, soft in color, like water thinned paint. The spectrum reminds of morning skies and dead seas, balances of good and evil; light and darkness. Sharp stabs of discomfort strike when I try to touch the lesions, so I let my shirt fall and hope that they fade quickly. It's going to be a pain in the ass doing much else in this condition, but what other choice is there? It's not like I'm going to quit because of this. Not a chance in hell. I sit back on my bed, legs criss crossed, and gaze around at the vacant dormitory.

I guess this is what I get for botching the fight. I could've won; I know I could've. But I underestimated Drew's capability and that proved to be my downfall. Maybe Eric is right. Anger won't win my fights. It has to be me. My skill, rather than blind fury.

Thoughts of his touches flood my psyche, large hands gripping my waist, guiding me. Showing me the right way. Warm on my stomach, brushing over my arms with a slight roughness that can only come from calluses that's made from hard work. Every little detail about him is memorable. He sticks out so much in my head, like glass welded into my brain. And I don't know to get him out. He's permanent.

 _Breathe_ , I think to myself and run my hands over my face. _You're fine._

I want to stay and rest for a few more minutes, but my body screams to get up and moving again. My absence will make Drew and his sewer rat friends think that they sent me into hiding like a petrified little girl; a coward too self conscience of their contusions to face the music. That's worse than losing any fight. As terrible as I might look, it's not enough to make me cower. There's no other option but to go back. The cold water lowered the temperature of my swollen eye, so I feel less deformed as I cross the threshold of the training room. Sparing continues accordingly. Eric leans clinically against a pillar, arms crossed over his vast chest, watching the initiates train. He stares at me as I walk to an open punching bag and trying to ignore it is like dodging a bullet at point blank range. Impossible.

Peter and his crew stand four aisles down from mine and their whispers don't go unheard when I stroll up. Molly laughs at something Drew says, probably about how bad my face looks, and it's almost comical how much her cackles sound like a wild boar. I exhale a held breathe, clench my fists, raise them in a protective stance and send a flurry of strikes at the practice bag. I should wrap my knuckles up in bandages so they don't scab, but my thoughts are too muddled into honing all my focus and frustration in this simple exercise.

"Hey, Charlotte," Peter murmurs after Four passes us, leaning back a little so he can see me past the line of initiates. He taps a spot next to his left eyelid. "You got a little something...oh, nevermind. That's just your face."

Drew and Molly burst into laughter. The voices mixed together sounds like plates of metal grating together.

I close my eyes, holding the punching bag still with both hands.

The voice in my head comes back. _Don't listen to them,_ it whispers. It's my sister again. _Ignore it._ Her calm face floats into my memory, pale rose lips and eyes like cracked sapphires an aching echo of all I left behind.

But their giggles and whispering goes on, making my cheeks hot and palms sweat. Jealously and conflicts are unavoidable, but there's so much a person can take before signs of wear begin to show. This is a prime example of lashing out when someone doesn't know when to shut their mouth. My fingernails dig so aggressively into the plastic covering of the punching bag it leaves noticeable marks. I don't think I've ever been this mad before. If I have, it's another memory I've smothered from my subconscious. The emotion is deafening, like waking up handicapped.

Instincts tell me to remain passive like my sister would advise, but sweeping it under the rug will only make it worse. Issues won't go away on their own, not unless I do something about it. A piece of Candor will always reside within me, a side I'll willingly embrace. Maybe reproducing myself as Dauntless will weed out all those crippling habits and make me into the girl I strive to become. Self satisfaction and safeguarding. There's admiration in that.

"Hey, Peter," I say, raising my voice an octave. Out of the corner of my eye, I see other initiates turn and look in our direction. "I'd stick to those insults if I were you. I hear you punch like a sporadic grandmother."

Peter slugs away from his bag. "What did you say?" He demands, storming up to me.

"You heard me," I answer lowly and swivel toward him. He's a foot taller than me and I try not to let that factor intimidate me. Height does not mean strength.

"No, I don't think I did," he seethes. His thin eyebrows pull together prominently, a deep crease in his forehead. "Say that again."

I say the words slower this time, enunciating clearly so my voice can touch every corner of the room. He needs to know that not everyone will back down to his threats. "I said you punch like a sporadic grandmother. You know, sloppy and lethargic."

Flames rise in Peter's eyes and his hand flashes up beside his jaw, coiled into a compacted fist. I swallow thickly, bracing myself for the split second impact and command myself not to duck. I won't dodge it. I will take it, soak it in, and heal from the damage like it means nothing.

But it doesn't come.

A menacing presence behind him has frozen Peter stiff as bricks.

"If you throw that punch," Eric's voice rumbles. He looks pissed and his stare alone can ignite fire pits. I didn't even hear him walk up. "It'll be the last thing you do."

Peter sputters, drops his arm and looks at him, surprise in his wide eyes. "Did you hear what she said to me?"

Eric's eyes tighten. He's not the only one that doesn't like backtalk. "Did I ask what she said?"

"No, but-"

"Then shut your mouth and get back in line."

Peter doesn't hesitate. The fire in Eric's eyes shrivel him to a tiny speck. Now he knows how it feels to be pushed around. And judging from the sour pinch of his mouth, he doesn't like it. Not one bit.

Eric looks at me, quiet and calculating. Our eyes lock on a mutual level and strangely, there's no animosity brewing between us. The air is humid, blanketed in something that feels like gratitude. Then he strides away and my posture loosens. I watch him leave with a sharp crick in my gut, hoping he saw the _thank you_ in my eyes. I can't bring myself to say it to his face. He takes every emotion in me and twists it into something I don't want to feel. He just makes me so nervous. But now that peace has been temporarily restored, I can practice with no unwanted scrutiny.

My hair sways free down my back, whipping about and falling in my face everytime I move left or right. It's annoying to brush it away every thirty seconds, so I take a minute to fish out an elastic band from my front pocket and plait my hair in a braid. Once it's tied back, training goes on. The column of my neck is warm and damp, slick with perspire. I'm not accustomed to having sticky, unclean skin on a daily basis. There's nothing more I want to do than take a relaxing shower. But I won't be able to until the training ends and the dorms clear.

And that's in six more hours. It seems like far too long.

Peter's remarks damage my concentration, even when I force myself to think about something else. I know this is want he wants. He wants to worm his way inside my head and force me to kill myself from the inside out. But I won't give him the satisfaction of seeing me squirm.

So I crane my neck from left to right, roll my shoulders and the kick the punching bag with my calf. The area stings, so I know I must be doing it right. I imagine Molly's round face in the plastic covering, almost knocking the suspender off it's hinge. My shin will bruise from the violent effort, but it doesn't matter to me. My entire body can scar, just as long as Peter and the rest of them never have anything to celebrate over me ever again. When noon ticks around, we break for lunch. Most flutter to the cafeteria to dine and some bring their snacks into the training room so they can go over what we've learned while they munch. I skip the opportunity to grab something and just fetch another mug of water. My stomach feels tender and I don't want to upset it by eating anything too soon.

Following that, we go right back to training.

After hours of practice and watching more fights, I start to feel a little woozy. My eyelids fall shut for more than a minute and I sway back and forth, as if someone has trapped the universe in a glass jar and shook it around. I don't know what's wrong with me. My hand instinctively reaches out and leans on something solid for support. Soft material wrinkles under my fingertips. A familiar smell floats up my nose, musky and made of pure man.

Eric.

I'm leaning on Eric. My eyes flit open to see him looking down at me with veiled regard. One hand is at my arm, keeping my stationary. His bare skin is touching mine.

And it _burns_.

"Can you stand?" He asks me roughly. His face is too close to mine. I can see the intricate details of the tattoos painting down his neck. They're so beautifully done. It makes me want to touch them, but I know I can't. I shouldn't be this close to him. Ever.

"Um...yeah," I fumble to answer and realize my hand is still on his chest. I yank it away, like it's against the law to physically make contact with him. "Sorry."

It looks like Eric wants to say something else, but Four speaks up then, dismissing training and calling everyone to the board as the rankings flicker into the slots. I break away from Eric's proximity and jog up behind the others, standing on my tippy toes to see over the crowds of heads. The virtual board flashes our names in red. I start from the first row until it skips all the the way down to my name in the fourth aisle. I'm number twenty. I dropped down five rankings.

My hands clench.

Okay, so I went down a few levels. It's not too bad. It could've been far worse. I could have been below the line. But somehow, I'm in the clearer field. Maybe losing to Drew isn't much of a disgrace as I thought. I glance over at Eric, who's standing silent next to Four, and see that he's also studying the board. I bet he's pleased that I regressed. He knew he was right all along and now every time he looks at me, my black eye will be a mnemonic that I'm just another stupid initiate who doesn't have the incentive to listen.

I look back at him and his eyes are already focused on me. His arms are crossed and his jaw looks tightly set, like he wants to lash out, but is restraining himself. The heat of his gaze makes me glare also, and my body begins to feel hot. Recollections of our scuffle flash behind my eyes. Warm skin on skin, flesh tones blending together and the bitter smell of oil in the air. I can still feel his hands at the back of my legs, squeezing and pulling as if he was staking his property. I remember how the light stubble on his lower jaw looked when my body hovered over his; tangled and forbidden looking to anyone with unaware eyes.

The memory sends a wave of heat down my chest, pooling in my stomach.

He's still staring at me.

I turn on my heel and jog toward the exit when Four clicks off the board, before the warming sensation can travel any farther.

I'm one of the first ones out of the room.

* * *

I walk into the mess hall as dinner is being served. The swelling in my left eye went down after I applied pressure on it with a warm compress. Hopefully I don't look as hideous as I feel. That will only give Peter and his posse license to mock me until the end of training. Most of the tables are filled when I come in, tightly knit and talking so loudly it makes every voice mesh together, overlapping to the point where it begins to sound like a strange buzzing. I stand there for a moment, dumbly, swooping over each table. There are plenty of empty seats for me to choose from, though none will make me feel particularly comfortable. Outplacement is a feeling I can't help but bring onto myself. It's a damaging perk; a drawback that I must live with from growing up in a house of abandonment.

I'm this close to spinning on my heel and going back the way I came, but a voice drifts toward me from the back tables.

It's Brandon. He's waving a hand toward his group.

At first it confuses me on why he wants me to sit with him and his friends, granted we'd just met that morning on unflattering circumstances. Maybe he likes me enough to want to be friends, hard to believe - and pushing that kind of effort away would be a stupid mistake. A mistake I will never let myself come to regret. So I smile and join him to dine. The spot at the end of the bench is free, right next to him.

"I was hoping I'd see you," he tells me, grinning. "You ran off earlier before I could ask you if you wanted to eat with us." He looks at his friends and introduces each one. "This is Alison, Noah, Danny, and Sarah."

All four greet me politely.

I wave my hello. "Yeah, I had to get out of that stuffy room."

"I don't blame you," Brandon adds, shaking his head. A half eaten cheeseburger lies on his plate. It looks greasy. "That fight was ugly. How are you holding up?"

I shrug. "I'm alright, I guess. Just a few bruises here and my eye is still a little swollen." I pick up the metallic mug at my right at gaze into my pallid reflection in the water. The mirror image looks so sullen. Sallow. "No worse than my last fight."

"I heard about that," Brandon answers. "You fought the brawny girl, right? The one that looks like she sleeps with knives?"

I smile and a giggle escapes my lips. The sound is mildly surprising. I almost feel...normal. The girl I used to be when my family was whole and every season felt like spring and when a cloudless blue sky was the most beautiful thing to me. "Yup, that's her."

"Jesus," Brandon mutters and a tremble rakes down his back, probably at the mental projections of Molly's manly hands. "How did you manage to beat her?"

I think for a minute but can't come up with a good winning explanation. The entire match was a wildcard. "I guess I got lucky." My eyes stray from the table and skim the cafeteria. Three tables down from ours, I see Eric sitting across from a girl with shoulder length jet black hair streaked with crimson and a pierced nose. His legs are separated and his hands are clasped together on the table, an empty plate in front of him. It doesn't look like he's eaten anything, but that's not what intrigues me.

I'm more mystified by the female.

I elbow Brandon in the midsection. "Hey, who's that girl?" I murmur, inclining my head toward the appointed location. "The one sitting with Eric?"

Brandon follows my eyes. "You mean Gianna?"

I nod. "Is that his girlfriend?"

Brandon laughs. "She's kind of a leader in training. Been hanging around Max a lot. I guess their eying her for the spot since Four keeps rejecting them," he explains and shrugs. "Don't know about her and Eric, though. I don't see them together that much, but they could be hooking up somewhere else."

Alison makes a funny face in mid bite. "Ew!" she chirps. Her nose crinkles. "I'm trying to eat here."

Brandon chuckles. "Hey, everybody needs to let off some steam once and awhile."

A lump forms in my throat at the idea of those two together and a knot twists in my gut, painfully, like somebody is jabbing a knife inside and rotating it at a ninety degree angle. I don't know why I'm reacting this way. It's not like I care what Eric does or who he's with. But my eyes can't help but roam back to him. Just looking at his face makes my arms tingle where he touched me last night. The rest of my body feels warm, as if anchors are chained around my legs and pulling me down to sea at summertime.

Eric turns his head after a moment and scans the length of the room, eyes searching over every profile. When they fall onto our table, and zero onto me, our gaze simultaneously meet and lock for what seems like hours until heat pools under my cheeks and my heartbeat drums against my breast plate. I whip my head back to the others, and force a smile when one of them says something funny. At Candor, I never had to pretend and play roles around my parents if something was bothering me so they'd never find out. They wouldn't notice either way. I lived a transparent life; and I was tired of going to bed every night and waking up each morning with a chemical taste in my mouth.

Here in Dauntless, it's different. Everyone is so lively and upbeat. I have to force the happiest expression and act like everything is the way it should be and I'm okay.

But it's not.

It's not okay.

_Stupid._

I'm so stupid.

Breaking contact with Eric like that is stupid. Just looking at him in the first place is stupid. Now he'll know how deeply our scuffle last night effected me. It's just another tally he can hold over me and I don't need that. His presence alone makes my skin raw and hot, like he's some kind of poisonous plant and I'm the unlucky consumer. He's so infuriating. He already thinks I'm weak as it is. I won't let that fabrication become true. The hand that's lying limp on my left knee curls into a loose fist, despite my attempts to relax the muscles. Great. Now he's getting me worked up during a simple meal. I'm subconsciously giving him power without even realizing it.

_Bastard._

Fidgety, I take a roll of bread from the basket, break it into halves, then take small bites off the edge. My appetite isn't very high, but it's better than sitting here twiddling my thumbs. Mostly, it just gives my hands something to do; and maybe more importantly, takes my mind off the immaculate presence of a certain instructor at my far right. Brandon and his group laugh and devour their dinner, completely oblivious to my social discomfort. Though, their company dulls the difficulty. It's nice to be around people who care about your well being, even if they don't know you like you know yourself. Or how I think I know myself. Sometimes it feels like I'm living in another person's body.

"Alright, kiddos," Brandon announces after a while, and takes a long drag from his mug before setting it down with a loud smack. He swings one leg off the bench and stands up. "Let's blow this joint."

Danny grins and pulls Alison up with him. "Hell yeah." The others follow quickly.

I'm the only one that's still sitting. "Where are you going?" I ask them.

"We're gonna head up to the tattoo parlor and watch Alison get her belly button pierced. Want to come?" Brandon says.

"We made a bet on how much blood she'll spill," Danny pipes in.

Alison smacks his arm. "Remember the penalties if you do win," she teases, smiling suggestively and waggles her eyebrows. Danny smirks and tickles her sides. She bursts into laughter, writhing in his grasp. They're so...happy. It's like witnessing new life being born.

"So you in?" Brandon adds.

I think about it for a moment. "Yeah, I'm in. Just give a second to change. I'll meet up with you there."

Brandon nods and smiles. "Catch you there." They hop up from their seats and jog out the exit, their laughter and happy deposition leaving a smear of unfamiliarity in their wake. I wish I can be like them. Content. Carefree. I don't know how they do it. It's like they're not even scared that they might not make the top ten rankings. Some people are wired for success. Others just crumble under pressure.

As I stare at the illumination at the center of my empty plate, a heavy footstep stops right behind me and in my distraction, I don't quickly process the action. Until a strong hand falls on my shoulder. Fingers lightly squeezing.

I freeze.

I know that touch. I can identify the skin texture, calluses and ridiculous warmth even in my sleep. It's engraved into my memory and not even the strongest serum will wipe it away.

Eric.

I close my eyes for half a second, breathing in stability and rationality, then tilt my head back to look at him.

He's already staring at me. The gleam in his eyes are indifferent, cold. "Come with me," he says so lowly, but despite the roaring of the cafeteria I can hear him crystal clear.

I nod, swallowing thickly to coat the sudden dryness in my throat and stand up to follow him out of the mess hall. His pace is slow and deliberate, heavy bottomed boots thumping ominously against the chipped pavement. The sounds echos off the empty hallway walls. His wide back blocks the view of where we're going. I check over both sides of my shoulders to see if anyone is shadowing us, but there's no one. It's just us and the dust beneath our feet. Fear bubbles in my chest. I don't know what he wants from me. I rack my brain for possible ideas on how I could've upset him, but my mind comes up blank. I can't think of anything plausible.

What did I do?

When we stop at a door, Eric jingles out a ringlet of keys and jimmies the lock free. The door swings open and he steps back to let me through first, an odd gentlemanly notion. I stand there for a moments delay, my arms tight and stiff and my sides, then hold my breath and walk in briskly. I'm not sure what's going to be inside. All I can configure is that it must be important enough for Eric to show me in private. But all I see is bright white light.

And mirrors.

Four walls are replaced with shiny mirrors. Flawless and reflecting any image or motion in seamless quality. It's vacant. No furniture or technical equipment. Nothing to imply that the room is properly used. Why did Eric bring me here?

I gaze at my reflection in the ceiling mirror, confused, and hear the door shut behind me. I listen for the quiet snick of the lock, but it never comes, which relieves me. At least I'm not being kept prisoner.

I turn warily towards Eric. "What is this place?"

He stops two feet from me. His black jacket makes the metal studs above his left eyebrow stand out even more. "Final examinations used to be held in here. When the rules changed, so did the layout," he explains and shrugs nonchalantly.

But it does nothing to clear my confusion. "Why are we here?"

He slowly begins to walk around me, and his eyes rake down my form, but it's not at all sensual. Tremors shoot up my back. I don't like the look of this. It feels the same as the first time we were alone. Intimidating. "I figured this was a good place as any to pick up where we left off."

_Where we left off._

My bones turn to cement. I know what he means.

He wants me to fight him again.

"Should we start now?" He murmurs when I fail to respond and starts to unbutton his coat, keeping his eyes on me. The gesture appears seductive, and it makes the blood in my veins boil over, but not from attraction.

It's anger. He can't make me do this. Not again.

I won't give in as easily this time. "I don't want to," I say plainly.

"Did I ask what you wanted?" Eric shoots back. The color of his irises look darker, like river water.

"This can't be protocol," I reply, almost to myself. "You can't make me fight you."

"Now you care about regulations?" He retorts. "After you thrashed Molly?"

"She attacked me first. That's not the same," I correct hotly. My fuse is running dangerously short. I can't allow myself to lose control. I can't.

Eric steps closer. The waves coming off his body is intensified. "Or maybe you're just afraid to admit that you're a coward."

"No, I'm not!"

"Then why did you blow your last fight?"

"I didn't," I answer, calmer this time. The breaths I take are long and gradual. It's the only way to keep my heartbeat steady. "I tried, okay? Drew was stronger than me. There was no way I had that one down," I try to vindicate.

But Eric doesn't buy it. "You gave up," he accuses me. A flame simmers in his eyes, threatening to ignite and char us both.

My hands ball into fists. I don't like this. It's like he's trying to kick me while I'm down, prove that I'm somewhere I don't belong. Maybe he's right. But he's the last person I will ever admit that to. "No, I didn't," I defend myself. "I just lost. He was better than me. That's all there is to it."

"You were _afraid,"_ he bites, eyes hardening into steel. "You could have beat him, but you choked."

"No," I grit, balling my hands tight and shaking my head as if there's a buzz saw going off in it, loud and grating. " _No_."

"You done making excuses?" Eric jabs and shrugs out of his unbuttoned jacket. "Or should we continue our, uh...lesson?" He tosses the article of clothing on the floor and faces me, posture tight and coiled. Ready to fight.

As we stare at each other, unmoving, I begin to realize what this is. Some kind of sick, twisted little lesson he's trying to teach me about not giving up even when I'm on the verge of permanent injury. There's something commendable about this, but it's not large enough to outweigh the ugly part of it. The part that doesn't make any of this okay. But I know there's no getting out of here in one piece. I'll have fight my way through the block of towering height and muscle definition.

I throw myself at him. I aim my clenched fist right at his jaw, but he dodges it deftly and my knuckles meet cold air. He repositions himself behind me, forcing me to swivel around to face him again. My teeth clatter and I frown so deeply I know there will be a permanent crease between my eyebrows. I hate him. I _hate_ him.

And he knows it.

He looks weirdly satisfied that he finally got me to snap and the arrogant glint in his eyes makes my shoulders tense and fingers shake with the lust to sock him over and over in his face that invaded my mind and break the fingers of his hands that burned themselves onto my skin. It's like I can't free myself from him, no matter what I do. He's always there, chained to me, trying to prove how weak and undeserving I really am. He's wrong. And I _will_ show him other wise. I steer my punch towards his jaw again, anger blinding the ability to reason and make rational combat movements, but it doesn't matter to me. I just want him to know that he doesn't scare or faze me. I will take anything he hurls at and end it by brushing the dirt off my shoulder.

We go at it for minutes. Even though most of my attacks are sloppy and don't hit target, they feel vigorous and that's all I want to convey. Eric is practically unscathed. There is no bruises, scratches, or marks on his exposed skin. He doesn't even look like he's breaking a sweat. To him, this must feel like a bout of tag with a child; a stupid, clumsy child. As my arms grow sore, he keeps me sharp on my toes and my fists swinging toward his body. He doesn't let me stop even when my knuckles show window cracks of blood. Every bone in my body aches and new bruises are beginning to blossom all over my legs and arms by his blocks and grasps.

My attacks grow more and more feeble with each attempt. I'm flooded with tiredness, but I don't think Eric feels anything from our squabble; he mocks me and deflects every potential blow like it's a gust of wind. It might as well be with my punches and kicks. He doesn't show weakness and offers no sympathy or pity toward mine. He smirks and goads me with every missed hit, strengthening the fire in my gut, but it doesn't give me the power to actually inflict damage. It just makes the hatred I feel for him bubble to irrefutable levels.

He lifts an eyebrow when I bend over, a hand to my burning ribcage. "Getting tired?" He asks.

I look up to glower at him, but it doesn't feel very impressive.

"One more time," he says.

My response comes out as a hoarse whisper. "No."

A threatening glint glosses over Eric's eyes, but his voice remains perfectly controlled. Poised. "What was that?"

I straighten my back and try not to cringe. "I don't want to play your games," I hiss. My lungs expand like they're filling with sand. I'm out of breath. I won't last much longer if he keeps up these attacks. His strength is too much for me to bear. I already feel myself chipping around the edges.

He cocks his pierced eyebrow. "Well, that's the problem," he says and seizes my arm, yanking me forward so our chests are touching. It's not intimate at all. It's intimidating and manipulative. Everything that he is. "You don't have a choice."

I feel his breath blow over my nose and shudder, clenching my teeth together so it doesn't show on my face. He can't know he effects me.

_He can't._

As if he knows what I'm thinking, he lets go of my arm, cracks his knuckles a few times, then spreads his arms. His fingers curl forward, beckoning me. _Taunting_ me. "Here's your shot."

"Don't," I seethe, fingers twitching at the temptation. Fighting him will sate a thirst for my internal frustration and vent all my feelings into a therapeutic clash - but it's too twisted, too unhealthy for me to try. It'll only make me angry, I know it. And that's not good. Anger makes me do stupid things. Things that will jeopardize my chances at passing initiation. "I swear if you come closer-" I breathe.

"Or what?" He presses. His rough voice crawls over mine, like a living thing, sliding over my skin. "You'll beat me into submission, like you did to Drew?" He's definitely amused by my loss.

This can't be policy, I think to myself. He can't force me fight him, can he? When my ribs are on the cusp of breaking? Dauntless are all about bravery, recklessness, but this isn't either of them. This is agony. This is crushing my chances of becoming Dauntless. But maybe this is what he wants. Maybe he wants to break me, so I have no choice but to leave, to waste away on the streets and die factionless like they say some of us will inevitably become. I will never die like that. When I die, it's going to be when I'm old and worn and used up of all the fire and energy I was born with and it will be with a gun in my hand, but peace in my heart.

I will die as Dauntless.

I fly at him, my fist raised and this time he grabs my wrist, spinning me around so my back is pinned to his chest. One of his arms is across my chest and he steers my slackened fist to the hollow base of my throat, putting pressure on my windpipe. It's difficult to breathe against my own fist and I try to inhale in short bursts.

He dips his head low so his lips are close to my ear when he speaks and I can feel his eyebrow piercing just barely bumping against my cheek, cold and hard. "You're thinking too hard. Focus on your opponent; memorize their movements. Block everything else out. That's how you win a fight. Do it again."

He flicks his wrist and unravels me away from him, like we're doing some kind of traditional dance and he's taking the lead.

My feet almost slip on the smooth flooring. "Why are you doing this?" I ask, panting.

"You're weak," he says and walks one step closer. "You think you'll make it as Dauntless when you can't last two minutes in the ring?"

"Why do you care?" I snap. "Are you trying to make me into a killer or something?"

His eyes narrow slightly and in a blur of a pale flesh and black ink, his fist comes flying toward my jaw. Times slows down for a fraction of a second. It feels like I'm blocked in by an invisible force field, boxing me tight with three feet of space. There's no way to go but down, so I duck to the right before his knuckles catch my cheekbone, forearms coming up to shield my face by instinct. But he predicts this and grasps wisps of my hair in his hand, squeezing it into a fist. He tilts my head back so I'm looking directly at his eyes.

It's like staring into an abyss.

"I'm training you to be a fighter," he says so quietly. His lips are dangerously close to mine. My heartbeat skids and lurches to my throat. I feel like gagging and my mind screams.

_Get away from me, get away, get away._

_GET AWAY-_

I part my lips to say something abrasive, loud and alarming so he knows he doesn't scare me, but my voices comes out in a soft murmur. "Let go of me."

"No," he says, but his fingers loosen an inch or two. "You're still acting defensively. You can't rely on just muscle. You have to fight smart."

"How?" I answer. My slows to a steady beat. For the first time...I'm actually interested in what he has to say.

"You're small," he notes, then lets go of my hair, and begins to circle me. I breathe heavily and try to stand up straight. "You can be faster than most," he continues thoughtfully.

"What else?" I ask.

"You tell me."

A couple beats pass. "Outlasting them," I say, wiping my damp cheek with the back of my hand. "Physically, I mean. I have to hit them a lot. A big knockout move won't always work...right?" I say tentatively. This is a this first time we're actually conversing somewhat normally. It feels odd. Inhuman.

Eric nods and his eyes search mine for a moment. He's far too close. I wish he'd say something or step away, but he doesn't. He keeps a limited spacing that I'm grateful for. At least some kind of barrier remains, muting something deep in the pit of my stomach that I don't want to acknowledge.

"Show me," he orders. His tone is not optional.

My choices are limited. Every move that's open to try will not reign past him. He'll block it and brush me off like an annoying insect. But standing here like a mannequin won't be much help either. The only way out is through the fire. I skim his physique for any points I haven't tried before and shamefully enough, my gaze settle below the waist. Blood rushes to my cheeks. Can I be so brave as to try a nut shot with him? If I somehow manage to hurt him, will he break a bone for it as payback? Or worse? The idea is nerve racking, but nevertheless, I find myself moving forward and kicking my leg up and in between the small space of his very fit thighs. His hand flashes to my calf, catching it before it can strike the target region and pulls me forward so my bottom half is smashed against his. My stomach floods with warm, but alarm overrides the sense of what's appropriate.

I take a clumsy step back with my free leg and loose balance on the smooth floor, tumbling down until Eric grabs my hands to keep me upright. But he's a second too late, and the force of my descending body pulls him down with me. Right on top of me. His left hand slams down on the space next to my head, preventing his body from completely crushing mine. The other surprisingly lands on my waist, just above me hip bone. Words float up my throat, but trap behind my tongue. His nose almost brushes against mine. I can smell him again. Musk, smoke, and an odor sweeter than aftershave, but not quite cologne. It fits him perfectly.

"Don't try that again," Eric warns me quietly. He's so close, the metal studs in his eyebrow rubs against my forehead. I wince at the draft of cold air, suddenly self conscious.

Saying 'I'm sorry' is the the logical answer, but it won't be sincere coming from me. I don't regret the action even a little. "Um," I blurt, stupidly, averting my gaze to the walls so I don't have to look at him full on. A dull ache stabs my shoulder and I grimace. "I think my shoulder is hurt," I say and try rolling it to ease the painful knot.

"It'll hurt more if you keep moving it," Eric clips and holds it still with one hand. The other remains next to my head. "Stop complaining. Put some ice on it if it's too much."

I don't want to argue with him anymore, so I just nod. "Okay." All I can think about is that he's _still_ on top of me.

"That's enough for tonight," he announces when he stands up, smoothing his hair into place. Our eyes mold together for a full minute. The color of his irises look darker and untraceable, like poetry from an old book written in an another language. Then slowly, he drops his hand down, palm open toward me. He's offering help up again.

I want to rebuke it, but my sore legs override pride. I link my hand with his, noticing the way his large fingers completely overlap mine and he jerks my body up quickly to my feet. He lets go and retrieves his coat from the corner, pulling it on. The black tattoos inking his lower arms disappear quickly under the ebony sleeves.

I stand there quietly and massage my throbbing wrists. My fingers are splotched with patches of red from clenching my hands together so tightly. My knees feel like cardboard, thin and crackable. He's worn out every ounce of energy I carry in me. And all for what? Just show that I can never beat him? Well, I will. One day I will.

He opens the door and holds it ajar. "After you," he murmurs, gesturing a hand that I should go first. There it is again.

That mocking tone.

I stare at him for a second, rotating my wrists in small circles to get some circulation flowing, then take a deep breathe and walk out into the dark hallway. A pang of cold air hits me square in the face and I shiver, hearing Eric step out shortly after me and lock the door behind him. I stand facing the direction where we came from, seeing light seep in from the mess hall and hear lots of voices laughing and talking boastfully. Being in an environment like this, alive stimulating, is surreal. I longed for so many years to be apart of something cohesive and now that I am, I keep getting pulled away to solitary. It's like monsters breaking away from the walls of my past, creeping up on me when I least expect it and don't want it. As I begin to tread back to positive company, I glance over my shoulder to see if Eric is following, but find his tall figure stalking off in the opposite direction. My shoulders slump with relief.

He's gone.

And now I'm free.

When I reach the dorms, something feels off. Like when you leave home and realize you left the oven or sink faucet on. Something that's important and you forgot to do. I know it's there in the back of my mind, but it doesn't hit me until I remember the dinner Eric forcibly pulled me away from. The acquaintances that I made.

_Brandon._

I stop right at the foot of my bunk. The room is vacant.

I forgot that I was supposed to meet him and his friends in the tattoo parlor. He'll think I purposely ditched him. Guilt sinks in my chest, followed by a fresh wave of anger. Eric didn't just yank me out of a moment of peace and force me to fight him, he robbed me of a golden opportunity to hang out with people I could come to count on. That won't happen again. Glancing around the room, I see that their not yet back from their piercing date. Maybe they're still there. Tugging the sweaty tank top above my head, I change into clean clothes, mop up the beads of sweat dribbling along my neck and shoulder blades, then rush out to the tattoo parlor.

My feet ache with every step.

* * *

The place is tricky to track down. It's on a higher level of the compound and requires serious leg work. By the time I waltz through the door, my thighs burn and I'm out of breathe. But at least the room is cool and quickly dries my damp brow. The ceiling glows a soft illuminated red, making every decoration appear deep and intimate. The black walls are lined with outlines of many different tattoos you can get and there's a special chairs set up for body piercings. As I stroll along the line, I see Alison sitting on a recliner, leaning against Danny's shoulder. Her eyes are closed and her face looks ashen, like she's nauseous.

"Charlotte!" I hear Brandon call from another booth. He jogs over to me. "Where were you? You missed the whole thing." Disappointment mars his features.

I frown, the bundle of guilt in my chest growing as big as a ball of yarn. "I'm sorry. I...um," I struggle to come up with a plausible excuse. "I got stuck with knife duty at the last minute." That sounds alright. Hopefully the lie doesn't leak through my expression.

"That sucks," Brandon observes. He doesn't sound angry.

"How did it go?" I ask, glancing at Alison.

She breathes softly, opens her eyes and smiles. "I fainted."

"Was there blood?" I inquire.

"Not enough to win the bet," Danny grumbles and crosses his arms like a fuming child.

Alison's smile widens. She yanks up the material of her black shirt and flashes me the metallic stud on her navel. The skin around it is slightly red. "And it was totally worth it."

I chuckle and walk closer for a better look. "Can I touch it?" I ask and she nods. Carefully, I lift my pointer finger and lightly tap the tip to the metal stud. It's cold to the touch, like water from melted glaciers. "It looks cool," I tell her.

Alison beams. "You should get one."

"I wouldn't know where," I admit.

"How about your nose?" Brandon suggests.

I ponder the option, but the mental picture doesn't look complimentary. "I don't think it'd look good on me."

"Of course it would," he argues.

I smile.

"What about your eyebrow?" Danny opts.

"No, that's _too_ hardcore for her," Alison says with a smile. "She needs something tough, but pretty." She pauses, then flashes me her navel again. "Like a belly ring."

"Let's not go that far," I answer with a laugh and follow Brandon as he leads me to an available booth. The black chair is reclined back and there's ten different needles and plastic guns lining the table. A woman stands beside the chair, tatted up from her wrists all the way to her shoulder blades. She gives off a very specific vibe, but it's not unwelcoming.

"What will it be?" She asks as I study the black gauges displayed on a glass casing. "Tattoo?"

My eyes fall on a small pair of black studs. They're round and shine like the ocean at night. "Maybe some other time," I reply, then look up at the woman. "But I'd like a piercing."

"Where at?"

"My ears." I touch the spot for reference.

She nods her head to the chair. "Have a seat." She slips on a pair of white latex gloves as I sit comfortably on the chair, leaning my head back on the squishy cushion. I prop my elbows on the armrests, breathing evenly and try not to panic when I see the woman gather a needle gun and antiseptic wipes. She cleans both of my earlobes, then makes a tiny little dot at the center with a marker, which I guess is the spot where the hole will be. I feel the sharp, frigid prick of the needle pressing against the flesh of my ears and close my eyes. I try to keep breathing, despite the urge to take air and hold it in my lungs until the act is done and over. But I can't do that. It will only make me all the more nervous.

"Ready?" The woman asks.

I imagine Mocky lying on my stomach, his furry paws kneading the thin material of my shirt and his purr reverberating throughout my body, grass beneath my bare legs and the echo of my mom scouring the cooking pans through the open kitchen window. I smile and nod without opening my eyes. For a few seconds, I'm trapped in a memory that I don't want to let go of. Not yet.

The needle goes through my ear.

I jump.

My eyes stay closed.

The needle shoots through my other ear.

I don't jump.

The pain I feel the second time around is lowered to mild discomfort, like being pinched very quickly by someone with stubby fingernails or accidentally grabbing a flower stem with thorns. The skin of my earlobes sting and weigh me down as the studs are put in. I peek one eye open slowly, then the other when I see the woman standing over me with a mirror in her hand.

She gives it to me. "You look good."

I take it tentatively, raising one hand to trace the black circular shape in my right ear. It's a little sore, but nothing close to the feeling of a fresh bruise. Or a fractured rib. I turn my head toward the right and tuck back my hair so it's not blocking the view of the newly placed jewel and lift up the mirror. The reflection doesn't belong to me. That face is not someone who once felt their loneliest in a crowd and once sleep three days in their backyard without their parents realizing or even caring and avoided the public because she hated to see other people with solid families and big smiles, people that had what she wanted. It's not Charlotte Rowe.

It's Charlotte of Dauntless.

"Do you like it?" The woman asks.

I lower the mirror to my lap and smile. "I love it."


	5. Passive Me, Aggressive You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I have the choice of being constantly active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. Or I can go mad by ricocheting in between."  
> — Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

It's raining.

As I lie face up in bed, blanket tucked around the curve of my waist, I hear it's faint echo on the roof of the compound. It's so quiet and chilling that I have to hold my breath for a few seconds and block out the rumbling of the other initiates' heavy breathing. Back in Candor, I used to sit comfortably on my pillow in front of the big glass window overlooking the city during thunderstorms, pressing my tiny child fingers against the surface to feel it tremble with the impact of rain. Colette was always scared of thunderstorms and made me sleep close beside her until it passed, something I always teased her about. After she left, I pretended the timid beats of waterfall were her heart beat, thumping solidly next to mine. It kept me sane while she was gone; a reminder that no matter how great the distance, our bond would always be important. I'm not sure what it means to me now, though. It's just white noise, like everything else.

The lines and cracks in the gun metal grey walls look like screaming spiral figures gaping down at me. Staring at them sends chills down my spine, so I roll over, grab the pillow from under my head and shove it over my exposed ear to keep the sound of rain from keeping me up until dawn. The repetitive thrum of waterfall against the roof sounds like the beat of a failing heart and it gets louder and louder to the point where it feels like a flash flood is engulfing the room. Squeezing my eyes shut for a moment, I sigh and rip the fluff of cotton from my head, and look around. All is still and silent with the slumber of transfers. No one's moved out of their doze. I guess none of them are bothered by the noise. Or if they are, they find no trouble in sleeping through it. Lucky them. My eyes can't stay closed for more than a minute and every part of me feels restless, but I'm not sure from what. All my stressed mind can register is that I can't fall asleep. Not now.

A walk sounds nice right about now. Maybe that will help. I'm the only one that's still awake anyway. So quietly, I slither out of bed, wincing at the sting of my bare feet hitting the ice cold floor, then tip toe over to the door and gradually creak it open. Soft blue laterns glow faintly from the ceiling, but all is quiet. The Dauntless seem to be asleep, like the rest of us. Or rather, what I should be doing. It's odd seeing the building so inert. I never thought such a lively faction slept much. Daily brushes with death must be exhausting after all. With the coast clear, I slip out stealthily and shut the door behind me. There's no noise except for my own breathing, so I stroll down the corridor without much worry, but check over my shoulder every now and then to see if anyone has caught onto my tracks. But luckily, no one has.

I come into the Pit entrance and walk to the balcony overlooking the lower level, scaling the edge until I reach the railing. The glass ceiling has a clear, perfect view of the rainfall, unrelenting, as if the sky has been angered and unleashing it's unholy rage. It's unusual being here when it's empty, no hum of overlapping voices or smacking of flesh against each other from entertainment fighters. Peace and quiet is something I thought the Dauntless know nothing about. It's nice to be proven wrong once and a while. The echo of cascading water evokes me to climb up over the rail and sit carefully on top with my ankles hooked along the rungs so I don't accidentally take a tumble and leave a nasty surprise for the Dauntless to clean up in the morning. I just tilt my face up and watch the clouds continue their onslaught, enjoying the silence.

Transferring here was sort of a knee jerk reaction, but not necessarily a last minute regret. It's nice to talk to peers again, to actually feel the  _desire_  to interact and be welcomed. Though, it can be... overwhelming. Being out in the open relieves some of the emotional stress. Sometimes I find myself comparing every room, every face I see to Candor, the atmosphere of the Merciless Mart lobby opposed to the glass building above. And I know I shouldn't. They're on opposite sides of the spectrum and besides, it's not like it matters anymore. I extinguished one wick to light another. So why does this emptiness remain?

Minutes pass in relaxing silence.

Until footsteps thud from the corridor. "What are you doing up?"

My hands tighten around the bars.

Eric.

He's hovering over my shoulder, tall and measuring. "Get off the rail," he adds roughly, tone holding an implacable note.

I exhale, swing one leg over the metal bar, then the other and hop down. Being in front of him again like this makes it feel like the world's axis is off balance. One wrong move and I'll fall for infinity. Or over the railing and die.

"What are you doing out here?" Eric repeats when I just stand there quietly, trying not to glare at him and praying just the same that this does not result like our past encounters.

I feel caged in. It's like what they tell us in school if we ever come across feral dogs in the streets on our way home. Stand perfectly still, don't stare at them directly in their eyes and you will not get hurt. If you're lucky. "I needed to be alone for a while," I say. "Sorry, is that a crime?"

"It's past curfew. You're not allowed out of the dorm at this hour."

"I know that."

"I don't think you do," he says. "If you did, you wouldn't be out here."

"There's too much noise in the dormitory."

"So you thought you could wander?"

"I wasn't wandering. I just wanted some space," I reply precariously, on guard. "Why is this such a problem, anyway? I wasn't doing anything."

"It doesn't matter," Eric answers. His eyes sharpen, but make no move to manhandle me. "You broke a rule."

"Sorry for the inconvenience, then. I just needed time alone."

Eric's eyes sharpen, but he makes no move to manhandle the situation. "Well, you got it. Get back to the dorm."

"Fine." I sigh and amble past him toward the hall, but pause when his voice rings out again.

"Initiate." His eyes are on me when I turn halfway, muscular outline shadowy against the meager light. "This is the last time I see you out here. Understand?"

A beat passes.

"Gotcha."

Clear on dismissal, I scurry back into the safety of the unlit corridor, my shoulders practically sagging with relief. It's easy to expect the worst when around Eric. I wonder why he let me off with a free pass, if night walks are such a serious game changer. Maybe I caught him in a fairly good mood - if such a thing exists for him. He didn't seem that eager to have my neck under his boot when he found me.

I don't understand it. I don't understand  _him._

And that probably will never change.

When I sneak back to the bunks, it's close to dawn. Everyone sleeps without a hitch. No one has cried themselves to sleep in the past few days. Most save the tears for their pillow or a quiet moment alone. I don't know why I haven't given in yet. I guess it's because there's really not much else to give; not deep down, from a place that hasn't been ventured for years. Although with the way things are going, that's bound to change at any given day. I kick off my socks, hearing leaky water faucets dripping softly in the background, then flop into bed. There's a quiet rustling of sheets moving as an initiate three beds down adjusts their feet, but other than that, it's all hushed breathing and silent heartbeats. I pull the blanket over my head, not at all tired, and lay there for hours until sleep eventually claims me.

* * *

There is no view of the city quite like the one standing from Candor's rooftop.

I remember it clearly and spent many restless nights watching the bright lights flicker in the distance where the wall stands strong. So many memories still remain. Although, it's more like still pictures in my head with no motion. Empty rows of chairs in the courtrooms, that trenchant pang of despondency in the air when a member has just been convicted of an offense, the ice cold touch of the pure white marble of the Judges' panel beneath bare fingertips, the silver gavel reflecting any object it catches in it's surface, blurry and distorted. Members who lead Candor in law rarely see the light of day. Their real homes are behind the bench. And Jack Kang is a demanding man, who expects ethics from every able body. That's why the lobby always has a heavy feel in their when you walk in, like you're on the cusp between life and death. To them, truth is just that. Meaningless words spoken is everything, and silence: nothing.

Dad visits me in sleep, but his presence brings more questions that comfort. Dreams can be either a form of manipulation; a piece of our subconscious that wants to control the greater part or tell tale warnings. I never thought much of them before, but this feels different. Crucial, almost. We're not in the Dauntless compound anymore, but in the Candor courtroom. The chairs are empty, light beams in through the windows, and footsteps echo faintly in the foreground. Dad sits behind the Judges panel, hands clasped loosely on the surface, features a perfect mask of demure. Some say I take after him. The shape of our eyes, small mannerisms with our hands and most prominently, if not the most rarely seen, our smile. I never claimed to hate him and never will. I just don't understand his methods. I wish I did. Then maybe life would make a little more sense.

Back in the dream, as Dad stares at me, I realize that I'm seated on one of the long front row benches and unable to move. My legs are crossed and cemented in place; wrists pressed together and held behind the chair. I shift my weight from left to right but with no avail. Fear unwilling rises to my chest. I don't understand. What have I done to be invisibly bound here like this?

"Dad?" My voice echos across all four corners.

He holds my gaze for a long moment, chest sinking in a prominent sigh like it always does when he must deliver a grim finality. Familial love gleams in his eyes, but only for a second. When he blinks, it's gone and his hand flashes to the gavel at his right. A clear accusation shines in his eyes.

_Traitor._

The gavel comes down on the block with a deafening smack. Bits of silver and metal explodes like glass, flying in every direction. A shard comes soaring toward my face, but in my paralyzed state, I can't move away or bring my arms up to shield myself. There's nowhere to go; nothing to do except wait for it.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

Then everything goes black. And I'm back in my bed in the Dauntless dormitory again. My eyes flutter open, breathing heavily, but the dream isn't what woke me from sleep. It's the voice ringing from the stairwell, ordering us up. It doesn't completely register at first, but just from the tone, I know it's not Four.

I groan lowly in irritation, partially muffled by the thick blanket, then prop myself on my elbows and blink the away the after effects of sleep. It's Eric standing at the bottom of the staircase, hands tight on the rail. Well, this is new. Four is usually the one who comes down to rouse us. I'd rather have his obnoxious stick drumming than Eric's cold, assessing eyes, watching us like a hawk. The morning has already gotten off to a bad start. The speed of how quickly the others jump out of bed is shocking. They trip and stumble into their clothes, fumbling with socks and shoes. No one will risk defying commands from a man like Eric. That would be flirting with danger. I was lucky enough to survive it once. And I doubt it will go as well if a second time comes around.

I yawn to repel post-sleep lethargy, kick off the sheets, then stand up. Cold air ghosts over my bare legs. "Good morning to you, too," I mutter as Eric turns to leave, rubbing at my heavy eyelids.

Eric freezes for half a second, his back to us, before turning slowly and cocks his head slightly in my direction. "Did you say something?" His tone is honeyed; a gun barrel hidden by velvet.

I pull my hands away from my face and look up at him from our medium distance. Neither of us speak at first. I shift slightly, bare legs cold from the morning chill, but our contact doesn't break. His eyes are like simmering pits, provoking fear and feeding off it all at once. That's how he operates. But he's not gonna get it from me. Not this time.

"No," I tell him finally, unassumingly. "Nothing at all."

His jaw flexes.

Our eyes lock for a moment longer, until I turn away before whatever has begun between us can rise to dangerous levels. It's too early to start off this way, with a throat full of broken glass and paper veins. The open space around the stairwell is quiet as I lace plait my hair, no movement for minutes on end before the reassuring clunk of Eric's boot heels float up the steps, louder and more distinct than before. I let out the biggest exhale and push the back of my hand over my pulsing forehead. No one has barely noticed the exchange and resume changing clothes, stripped shirts, leggings and more hitting the floor. It's not much of a bother anymore. In Dauntless, you become desensitized quickly to bare exposure. Although, for the sake of body control, I prefer to stay somewhat covered. A towel wrapped here or there with my hair swept over my shoulders. And when Eric is in the room, dressing appropriately bumps up a notches on the priority list. At least Four doesn't hover over us in the morning. There's some line of humility with him.

I can't say the same for Eric.

I change into fresh clothes, hair damp and wavy from the shower, and choose to skip breakfast as it will save time. One thing about transferring is that you begin to miss the little aspects of old home life, the perks you took for granted. The beauty of waking up to sunlight kissing your skin and a quiet room, a bubbling eatery but with gracious space to feel comfortable. It's not like that here. Everywhere I turn, I see shadows and low light, an underworld of sorts. It's a drastic change, but one that is oddly soothing. Home is a place where emotions should manifest and not suppress.

There are no fights to start off the day. Instead Four teaches us proper blocking and grappling techniques. He's the more docile, approachable one out of our two select instructors, though not without jagged edges. When he teaches, he doesn't hold back at all. It's fairly simple to be comfortable around him without getting flustered. An open mind, rested brain and closed mouth is all you need. The rest fall into place. Eric is the one that makes you feel like there's a grenade stuck in your mouth and the smallest movement of your lips will pull the pin. Although weirdly enough, he's missing from the training room. It must be something important if it requires his absence. It feels like nature's way of apologizing to a rather rocky start of the day, so I better enjoy it while I can.

After lunch, Four paces in front our select group of transfers around the mat and breaks down the basics of a standard submission, his fingers twitching every now and then. They say submissions are rarely pulled off in Dauntless anymore, that it was more of an incorporation with the old rules. Of course, with the new rules being recently cemented, no one dares to talk about traditions of the past. Although, it can't be prohibited, if Four manages to teach us it without any flack from the leaders.

"It's called a kimura, a medial keylock similar to the americana," Four explains. The way he walks is intriguing. His shoulders are perfectly aligned, yet there's this weight to his step, his stance that implies he carries a heavy burden with him everywhere he goes. "As far as I know, it's only been performed once in the ring."

"By you?" A dark haired girl asks.

"No," Four answers. "Eric."

That's not difficult to believe. Very little is known about Eric, at least to me, and even some of the elder Dauntless. But if one thing is universally spread, he's just as deadly with his hands as he is with words, with his eyes.

"Your opponent won't just lay down and let you submit them, so you'll have to get them on the ground first," Four continues, coming to a stop. "So I'll need a volunteer." All eyes unanimously avert to different directions, looking anywhere but him. Four glances around, meeting the faces of initiates who have suddenly grown a fascination with the ground or a spot on one of the beams. He shakes his head at the unwillingness, then stalks down our small line, picking out a victim with his own eyes. I wait with baited breath, hoping he'd choose Peter so I can watch him lose consciousness, but then Four's hand falls on my shoulder, fingers clamping lightly. "Let's start with you."

A knot of apprehension molds in my gut, but I slug forward without objection. Four doesn't normally rattle my nerves, but one look at his biceps can make anyone want to crawl into a hole. I could end up with another fractured rib, a popped shoulder socket, or worse. The possibilities are endless.

Four notices my uneasiness. "Don't worry. I'll release it before you can lose consciousness," he says, looking at me seriously. "Now this will hurt."

"What-"

I barely have time to blink when Four sending us tumbling to the mat, though somehow on the way down, he flips our position so he lands on his back and I end up squished between his legs. My hips press directly over his. How many girls fantasized about being in this situation? Under different circumstances obviously. I almost burst into laughter at the thought of it, but jump in surprise when Four locks his legs around my lower back and pushes me closer so we're practically chest to chest. My stomach flips as he grasps my left wrist with his right hand, then curls his free arm over my upper arm and yanks me forward. The top half of my body is sprawled sideways, cheek grazing the mat while he twists my seized arm backwards and adds detrimental pressure. His lower legs stay weaved around my back, so I can't move an inch.

I wince as pain slowly builds up, trying not to fidget and make it worse. Four's voice speaks to the observing transfers, hands tight and secure like steel as the continuous pressure he adds to my bent arm begins to feel inflamed. I shut my eyes, nose close to the mat and inhale the musk of perspiration. The rubber has a pungent scent. Soapy, sour and mildly salty, like someone scrubbed away at it furiously to remove blood stains, but gave up half way through. I raise one hand after a passing minute, in preparation to tap before my arm can permanently dislocate, but Four releases his grip and circulation flows back in like an electrifying shock. I sit up and lightly roll my shoulder, looking down at the space he grabbed and see that his fingers left a soft scarlet hue to my skin. Four is definitely not someone to underestimate. He can use his limbs like a bear trap.

"Well, that was  _fun_ ," I mutter frivolously and brace one palm to the mat as I rise carefully on my feet.

Four overhears and smirks the slightest bit with dry amusement. He hasn't cracked a real, genuine smile yet. "You should see what I have planned for tomorrow."

I can only imagine what it is.

Four calls for us to partner up and we do. This isn't like anything he's taught before and given how effortlessly he showed us the first demonstration - and everything else, for that matter - he must be a man pegged for many talents. Is that why Eric looks down at him with such strong disdain? It seems like a bit of a stretch, considering that Eric rose above Four and supposedly becoming a leader is no easy feat to achieve, especially given how young Eric was when he was inducted. Or maybe it all just stems from a residual rivalry never put to rest. It makes me wonder when the tension will finally blow between them. With two men like them overseeing us, it's bound to happen eventually. Just imagining it is like anticipating another devastating war.

Half an hour of training passes with nothing but the sound of clothing scuffling on the mat. It's tricky and I almost twist my ankle, eliciting unwanted laughter from my partner, but what she doesn't find humorous is me almost tapping her out with a kneebar. She shouldn't have laughed at me. We wrestle about and switch guards for as long as Four paces around us. It takes over an hour to get right, but I'm the first to successfully tap out their partner. And judging from the way the girl clutches her kneecap and groans, I handled her limb with less care than caution. Edward comes in just seconds behind, a first for him also. Four appears pleasantly surprised at the result, but lightly pats me on the back once in what I can guess is his own way of congratulatory.

I think I'm getting the hang of this.

* * *

Mornings are my least favorite part of the day. And it wasn't always, until I came here.

The Canteen is usually jammed and buzzing with hungry Dauntless. The tables swarm with people fighting for a spot in the serving line and does not cease until everyone is seated. I hate it when it's like this. It's the only time it makes me want to stay in the dormitory and skip a meal. Crowds aren't my thing. Never was and never will be. I don't like the feeling I get when I'm squished between a mass storm of bodies. Anxiety spikes, panic builds up in my chest and it feels like I'm about to drown. Fighting my way through never seems to work. I just end up getting stuck and have to wait for a cushion of breathable space. It's a nightmare come to life, so I always try to avoid it in some way, but it gets harder and harder every day. Though no one knows this and it's better that way.

"Complete bullshit-" Brandon's heated voice snatches me out of my sleepy stupor during breakfast one morning, ranting about an issue I didn't catch. A small crease sinks between his eyebrows, pulled together by tension and obvious scorn.

"You're only saying because he kicked your ass yesterday," Noah tells him.

"So what if I am?" Brandon shoots back. "And I almost had him until he landed me with that uppercut. He got off easy."

"Is that why you amply demonstrated your skills by missing the double tap?"

"Man, shut the hell up."

Danny chuckles. "Well, Lauren said you're up against Uriah tomorrow. You better not lose again or I owe Lynn twenty five points."

I rest my cheek on my palm, elbow on the table, and fight the growing heaviness in my eyelids. Alison rolls her eyes at the boys' enlightening conversation and pushes her plate toward me. Half an English muffin, spread with a micro thin layer of jam with a side dish of plain yogurt. She must have noticed I hadn't touched anything, much less moved from this position, since we sat down. It's not what I usually go for, but they're all out of the regular muffins. At the crack of dawn, my brain automatically rewires for chocolate and it's hard to choose a good substitute. Skipping the morning dine probably isn't a good idea. I should've picked up a bowl of fruit while they were fresh, but Alison's tray will have to do. It's not the best tasting stuff in the world, but it's better than nothing. I reach for the toasted circle of bread as our table resumes eating in pleasant silence, talking between bites and laughing at the stories Danny tells from their own training. It seems like the Dauntless borns' initiation is going much smoother than us transfers. Lucky bastards. They don't know how good they have it.

I guess every faction is privileged in their own way, some more than others. From what they teach us in Faction History class, a lot has changed since these walls were built, maybe more than they'd like to admit. Sometimes I wonder what exactly our founding faction fathers had in mind when they created this haven. With over a hundred years of coexisting, I don't think the factions have quite begun to fully understand other yet. Amity is still made a mockery of, Abnegation is under the gun more than ever this year, Erudite remain the pigeon holed know-it-alls, and Candor stands at their pedestal because they have the gall to say what nobody else will not. Dauntless is the only one that surprisingly has kept even ground with all the factions. They do as they please and no seems to give them any flack because it's expected behavior. But as the city's protection, they're trusted with everything we have. More barriers are up between the factions this year and I don't know why. Dad once said that living in close obscurity will eventually lead to regression. Maybe this is what he meant.

"So you could actually keep animals inside?" Sarah asks me during a break in usual conversation. I've been telling her bits and pieces about past living. She's one of the few that's fascinated by the concept of other faction lifestyle.

I lick a drop of yogurt from my bottom lip. "Yep."

"Like, they could walk around, eat, and sleep with you?"

"Pretty much."

"What happened if they died?"

"Grab a shovel and dig." Sarah's tiny gasp of shock makes me laugh, as callous as it sounds. "I'm kidding! Usually we just cremate them."

"You know, for a second, I thought about transferring there," Danny says, subconsciously cracking a knuckle. That must be some kind of Dauntless born tick.

Alison raises an eyebrow at him. "And leave me here?"

"You'd survive."

She smacks his arm.

"What could you have gotten out of Candor?" Brandon asks him.

Danny lifts and drops a shoulder. "I don't know. Change of scene? I thought it'd be cool being around people who could never lie. Like, ever. And they'd tell you everything you wanted to know."

"Be glad you didn't," I tell him curtly. "Candor is the last place you want to be."

"Why?"

I stall my answer, not wanting to misinform him with one sided vitriol, but if a spade is a spade, then that's what I'll call it. "It's just not what you think it is."

"It must have been nice, though," Danny replies. "Knowing that everyone you talk to is credible."

He doesn't know half of it. "Trust me." My tone hardens. "Everybody in Candor is a liar." Brandon's brows furrow at that, but the subject doesn't delve any further. They don't know much about my past home life. The topic is touchy, that much is evident to them. But at least they know when to drop it when it hits a rough patch.

I've never had a select group of friends like them before. At least none that came with this kind of bonding. There was a few during late childhood that I ran with, the ones that walked home with you to repel factionless stragglers that beg for scraps of food and sat next to you on the bus so that one boy you regreted kissing wouldn't come near. After my sister left, I sort of drifted off on my own. It's nice to have a clean slate. As I sit and listen to everyone talk, my eyes begin to wander about the room. There's only a few minutes left until we have to leave for training, so there's not many people loitering around as there was before. I glance up at the rails above and spot Eric talking with another Dauntless leader, an older man who looks to be around Max's age. He's tall, buzzcut hair with a trimmed goatee, and fairly muscular. Though not nearly as big as Eric. I don't think I've seen anyone as tall or fit as Eric.

I have yet to see all five leaders of Dauntless, but there's at least one woman, or so they tell me. The rest are mostly men. I look away after a few minutes, somehow thinking that Eric can notice my stare from a great distance - in which he probably can - and idly stir my yogurt around with a spoon, hunger fading. His presence is still very much distracting, even when he's not invading my personal bubble. I feel eyes burn into me, but it's not coming from behind. Looking up, I see Alison gazing at me across the table in a very peculiar way, as if she knows my conflicted feelings, can taste it in the air. When my eyes meet hers, she smirks and winks playfully. If there's a smile that implicates knowing every secret and thought a human being can have, it belongs to her.

* * *

We're almost halfway through stage one and I've miraculously managed to float above the red line. My placing has fluctuated over the past few days, but yesterday it peaked into the top ten. It feels like both a blessing and curse. The higher you elevate, the more you're regarded as one of the strongest initiates out of the class. And the more recognizable you become, the more animosity builds up, as if there isn't enough to start with. Although not all are exactly on it's point. For me, it's been pure luck. I find myself sitting in the cafeteria a lot during breaks, staring down at my hands, curling then releasing my fingers to see the bruised knuckles pop and soothe some of the ache in them. Is this what toughness feels like?

Today, more fights have been written out on the board, in pairs. My name is scrawled in chalk next to an Erudite transfer. I don't remember her name and she doesn't really need one, given the way she blackened both of Lucas', who is only one of the strongest boys of the class, eyes yesterday in the ring. The precision of her knuckles speak for themselves. A match is already underway and judging from the way one fighter is clutching his side, there's not much time left on the clock. He's going to drop like a wilted petal. I watch from the sidelines and try not to let the nerves shine through, but an antsy tingle enveloping my spine flares the anxious knot in my gut that I've been trying so hard to keep bound and gagged. Now's not the time for this; to be nervous or make stupid mistakes.

The fight in the ring gets called off when one of the boys gets cornered on his back, unable to put up a formidable defense anymore.

I unfold my arms and sigh. The time has come and for once, I can't predict exactly where the chips will fall; it's a back-to-back chance. The Erudite girl looks at me with confident eyes, cracking her neck from left to right very calmly, too calmly as if this was a script she previously read for. Either she's attempting to mask nerves or it's an intimidation factor. I can't say it's working, but our outward energies aren't very far from each other. Four crosses his arms, features composed and aloof as regular and nods at us to begin. The Erudite girl props her hands up protectively, weight shifting back and forth between the balls of her feet. She kicks with one foot at my right leg, countering right after with the other at my left. One out of three of them shoots high enough to block with my arm.

Now I can see why she nearly stomped the lights out of Lucas. Her assaults don't seem very powerful at first, but they are like heat burns. With each minute passing, the more prominent the pain grows. Tagging multiple hits on her is also tricky. She is swift, lithe and skittish as a field mouse. Overwhelming me will be easy for her if I'm not as fast or don't make the right decisions. We really begin to square off, trading jabs, kicks and parrying while our physical condition is at the highest peak. Different parts of my body ache from her assaults and I've managed to burst a blood vessel in her nose. It drips gradually onto the clean white mat, coating her top lip, but she does not wipe it away. The fight is far from over and it will take much more sweat and grit to break through each others armor.

We separate after a while, shoulders sagging and lungs hungry for air. Neither of us say a word and just gaze at each other; no aggression, nor sportsmanship regarded.

Eric stands opposite of Four. "Get on with it," he tells us, sounding not at all pleased at our idleness and his heavy, clipped tone implicates that he won't stand another second of it.

I push the back of my hand against my forehead as the Erudite girl cracks her knuckles, posture straightening. When she comes at me again, aiming directly for my cheek, I dodge once and return the punch, ducking again when her left fist follows up the failed right hook. But her strikes are much quicker than they appear. Her fist steers toward my middle and hits me right in the abdomen. The sudden motion jerks me backward, almost doubling over in instinctual need to shield my vulnerable spots. The small window of opportunity causes her to spin and backhand me against my cheek bone; blistering heat rushes to my face, stinging at the spot like I'd just been pricked with a large, thick needle. I lightly touch the spot with my fingertips, inhaling sharply, then lower my hands, keeping them at neck level.

The Erudite girl's fingers clench in her fists, nails stubby and bitten raw to the bed. She snaps her long leg up, hips swiveling so it aims higher and I duck just in time so it narrowly misses my temple, grazing a few wisps of hair. Her body pivots all the way around to complete the turn, giving her back to me for half a second, but that's not what I'm looking for. When she completes the total three hundred sixty degree, torso left unguarded, I kick my foot clockwise, the heel colliding with the bridge of her nose. A choked wail erupts from her throat and she falls to the ground. One hand is braced on the mat and the other flies up to touch her nose for a moment. She retracts it to inspect, eyes widening a bit when she sees that it's smeared with red. Blood runs profusely from her nose now and she quickly cups it to diminish the flow, hand shaking.

I guess she doesn't like the sight of blood either.

 _Better her than you._ My gut pinches with sardonic truth.

The girl makes small muffled cries, partially muted by her fingers and her brows pucker in what I can only assume is pain beyond imagination. I contemplate on just leaving her there to fend for herself, the overwhelming bitter and rusted scent of blood making my head pound and stomach twist with sickness. And I want to; it's only the expected response. But this could have been me, stripped and susceptible to judgment. It's a feeling no one can accurately render unless you're in the moment. I take her arm without offering assistance first and sling it over my shoulders. She leans into my side for support, foot sloshing into a tiny pool of blood excreted from her nose. It leaves a messy print on the mat as we step off.

A stronger male initiate aids in walking her to the infirmary, but the most we can do is making sure she makes it past the threshold toward the nurse before jogging back to the training room. The day's almost done and I've never looked forward to the evening more than I do now.

"That was some beating you took."

I stop in front of the metallic gym bars at the sound of Eric's voice. For such a heavily built man, he knows how to be light footed.

"Funny. I don't remember losing." The ache in my side and throbbing knuckles seem to agree with him, though.

Something plays behind his eyes, amusement maybe. Then his expression turns serious again. "Why'd you hesitate?"

"What?"

"You were gonna let her win."

"I wasn't-"

"You weren't? Then why didn't you finish it when you had the chance?

I pause, finding the answer difficult to explain myself. "I don't know. I guess I just didn't think of it at the time."

"Your stupidity won't last you long."

"So I've heard," I say curtly by way of insinuation to his past remarks, looking at him point blank in eyes so he knows it. The corner of his lips twitch up; a smirk, but just like that, it's gone. And surprisingly enough, I find myself returning it for a second before moving closer to the gym. The highest beam suspends at least three inches above my head. I'm about to reach up and grab it when I realize that I'm not yet alone; Eric watches me still. It looks like he's waiting for something. "It won't happen again," I tell him quietly, if validation is what he's searching for.

And for a moment, Eric doesn't answer and just studies my face. Whatever he's hoping to find, it's not there. "Good," he finally says.

Then he walks away.

It's easier to think when he's gone, much less breathe at a reasonable speed.

An hour passes.

The sound of dead weight dropping disrupts my focus. Up on the bars, I glance over my shoulder and see Molly and Christina on the mat. Their height and muscle mass difference is almost comical, but Christina is no one to undermine. I've seen her punch the wit out of guys twice her size like nobody's business. However, ever since her last loss, Molly has been mowing through the lesser initiates like hell is up for hire. The transfers dub her the 'Tank' and deservedly so. I pity the soul who has to contend with her wrath. Although, Christina seems to be performing well so far. She's definitely a spitfire, although if the flame in her burns bright enough to ensure a win, I don't know. I hope it does. The last thing Molly needs is another reason to smirk with smug satisfaction.

I drop down from the gym and inch closer to their fight, internally wincing when Molly throws brutal knee jabs to Christina's midriff and punches her across the face. It sends her sprawling to the mat. I sink my teeth into my lower lip and wait for her to get up, but she doesn't. A terrible sign. Molly swings her leg at Christina's stomach. I frown, wanting to stay positive for the sake of the ailing fighter, but the outcomes are not going the way they should. It's hard to imagine it suddenly turning the tide in less than sixty seconds. Eric watches closely from the sidelines as Molly succeeds in pinning Christina on her back and punches so hard it leaves imprints on her skin; once, twice, three times. I want to look away, but my sights are glued as crimson fluid begins to flow.

Christina crawls away from Molly, but it looks more desperate than to put up a defensive struggle. She throws up a hand in surrender. "Stop! Stop!" She wheezes and almost chokes on her own blood. "I'm done. I'm done."

Eric towers over her. "You need to stop?" Quitting a match in front of him is suicide, but it's clear from the battered skin on Christina's arms and stomach that she can't go any further. Bowing out is the only choice to avoid permanent injury, but I don't know what it will cost her. Hopefully, not much.

Christina does not speak, only nods to the question.

A dark curtain falls over Eric's eyes, but it's unclear what it's supposed to show or hide. But I know it's not good. Nothing concerning Eric can be good. "Okay. Let me give you a hand." He lowers a hand to her.

Christina shakily accepts the gesture. The tips of her fingers barely graze his. "Thanks."

I don't like this. Something is wrong with the picture and it doesn't fully hit me until I scan the room. Four is missing. This can't work well in our favor. Not like Four has much sway over Eric's iron fist anyways and he himself can be a stickler - not as severe as Eric - but at least his presence is not as hectic. Not all the time.

"Alright, let's everyone take a break!" Eric announces. There's a certain bite to his tone. It's alarming and I'm sure I'm not the only one who notices. "Follow me," he adds hollowly and walks with Christina toward the door, slowing his pace to match her sluggish stride. This is new. He's acting like a friend, rather than our figure of authority. I've never seen this side of him, not genuinely, and it feels like the quiet, tranquil calm before a terrible storm.

We have no choice but to trail behind him, taking the cumbersome path that leads to the Chasm. The lights are pretty dim, barely underlining the marble walkways, but the faint whooshing of water grows ear grows louder and ear-splitting. Christina is the only one that walks with Eric, a mere pint of his size. As we get closer and light from the end of the tunnel starts to brighten, I see Eric lay a hand on Christina's lower back. Gently, sympathetic even. My eyes instantly narrow. I've seen this before, but this is different... other intentions. But I have no idea what they could be. He rarely touches us like this. At all, actually.

 _Except you,_  a voice whispers in my head. It sounds like my sister again. I kick it quiet.

"You, uh, feelin' a little better?" Eric says as they walk onto the bridge.

"Yeah, I'm fine," comes Christina's dry answer. Before they can reach the middle of the ramp, Eric shoves her off the edge, holding her left hand in his so she's forced to dangle off the edge with only one appendage for support. The group clusters at the opening, frozen with trepidation and someone grabs my arm out of shock. I can't hear the sloshing of water anymore. I can't hear anything except the pounding of my own heartbeat.

"Grab the rail," Eric says. "Or don't." He releases Christina's hand, leaving her to fend off her own weakening strength. My fingers curl into fists. "You got three options: hang there and I'll forget your cowardice, fall and die, or give up." Eric pauses. "But if you give up, you're out."

Nobody moves. Some initiates look away, while others can barely tear their eyes from Christina's damp hands that seem to be slipping with each second. It feels like time has been eliminated, leaving us suspended in an empty existence. I place a hand on the curved wall, fingernails scraping over the cement and spare myself a second's worth of time in leaning over the edge to see the deep, sawtoothed floor of the Chasm. The height sucks me in like a vertigo and I quickly snap away in fear of accidentally falling in. Mist from the roaring waves below softly spray at Christina's back, soaking through her clothes. The rungs look slippery as ice. I'm surprised she's managed to hang on for this long. But how long is long enough?

I look over at Eric, stomach tight and wonder how a person can be born with so much cruelty. He watches Christina's desperate form with mild interest. Her long fingers are red from clutching the edge so hard. If she shifts her palms even a fraction of an inch, her grasp will break - and the plummet will surely be fatal. I've never seen a dead body before. I wonder when that will change.

"Come on, Chris," her Abnegation friend says brightly, but is silenced when Eric spares her a long, sharp look. His gaze settles on me for a moment, then back down at the rail again. He's so calm... so disturbingly nonchalant. I shouldn't be surprised by this - not at all. But after spending so much time alone, one can't help but forget how sadistic a human being can actually be.

"Time," Eric announces at last.

The Abnegation girl and Edward spring forward to pull Christina to safety, grabbing both her arms and haul her up the ledge. Her face is slick with a mixture of water and sweat, skin pale like a sheet of linen. She slumps against her friend's body for support, breathing in ragged intakes from exhaustion. Her friend rubs her back in slow circles to calm her, but it doesn't look like it's working very well.

Eric shifts around them so he's facing our group. "Dauntless _never_  give up." His eyes meet mine at the last word. The contact holds.

I don't look away. Not this time.

* * *

Hours later, after a fresh shower and clothing, I trek up toward the highest Chasm walkway to meet Alison in the tattoo parlor. It's getting fairly late, but after all that's happened today, it'd be nice to end the evening with someone I don't hate.

"Hey, Big Red."

The sound of Peter's voice makes me freeze. Him and Drew are standing at the end of the Chasm tunnel, right by the threshold. They lean casually against the wall, almost too calmly for someone of their reputation. My hands clench at my sides. Of course that defaming label is aimed at me. Peter would never call Drew that, whose hair is so bright it's like staring straight into the sun without visors. I continue walking, but at a slower stride. "I have a name, Hayes. Use it."

Peter shoves off the wall, but Drew stays in his place. "I might have been wrong about you," he fakes a friendly tone.

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah, you were really quiet in Candor. Kind of bitchy too." He smirks, like he expects automatic forgiveness. "What do you say we start over? Be friends?"

My eyes immediately narrow. I've seen this facade before, this Mr. Nice Guy role he plays just get into someone's head and worm under their skin, poking, protruding and lashing until they can't take it anymore and ultimately psych themselves out. I would know. He did it to me once. It's not gonna happen again. Peter isn't stupid. He knows exactly what he's doing.

I roll my eyes at his change of heart and turn away. "Yeah, right." When I try to walk past the bridge, his hand locks around my wrist and pulls me back toward him. Internal sirens shoot off.

"Hey, come on, don't be so-"

"Get your hands off me," I warn, all sense of civility lost. "Now."

Peter quickly lets go at my tone. "Whoa, relax. I was only trying to say that you and I should team up."

He really lost me there. "What?"

Peter steps forward, invading personal space and forcing me to move back because being anywhere this close to him is like setting off an atomic bomb. "Yeah. I mean, to be honest-" he glances around before continuing. "You and I are the only real competition here. You're pretty tough. You know, for a  _girl_." They way he coats the words is anything but complimentary. "What do you say we-"

"No," I cut him off clean. "Nice try, Peter, but I know you hate me. You'd never pitch an alliance between us unless it ended with me dead."

"What?" His thin eyebrows raise. "I think you're getting the wrong idea. I don't want you dead." The distance shortens, making me walk backwards without really watching where I put my feet. The roaring of water is prominent in my ears.

Glancing over my shoulder, I see that I'm bordering dangerously close to the ledge, where the rail fails to reach. A few more shuffles and I'd be one shove or foot slip away from death. Peter is the only obstacle blocking the exit. Anxiety and a shot of panic spikes my bloodstream, hot and tangible. My palms start to moisten, but I shake them lightly and place them on my hips to hide the fact that he's rattled my nerves. Showing weakness in front of someone like him is like self destruction. I might as well just jump into the water right now and spare him the energy of doing the deed himself.

"Get out of my way, Peter," I tell him very quietly.

"I'm not stopping you," he answers with faux innocence. "I'm just trying to help you out. I kean, in case you didn't notice," he shows his true grin. "Everyone hates you."

"Who said that?"

He shrugs. "Everybody. They just don't want to say it to your face because they know you're, you know...  _emotional._ " The cruel glint in his eyes return. This tactic of manipulation isn't foreign to someone like him. In Candor, his reputation was widely known for bending words and twisting people around his finger to make them believe what he wanted them to believe. A fabricator of truth, like any other. No wonder he seceded. Always getting your way must become mundane at some point.

"Sure. And now you suddenly want to be friends?"

"Why not?" Peter says. "It could work in our favor. You don't want to end up factionless, right?"

"No, thanks. I'll take my chances on my own. Great talk, though." I give him a blunt pat on his bare arm, hoping he'd take it as a hint to move away. "Very concise argument."

Peter takes another step closer. "You sure about that?"

The heels of my shoes brush just a little over the ledge. Pebbles and dust crackle beneath the soles. "Move, Peter." My voice shakes.

"Come on, I think it's a good idea."

"I don't," a new voice breaks through from the tunnel, deep and full of ominous glint. Footsteps thud heavily past the dark corners. Then Eric comes into view, tall and imposing, and looking much like he's about to commit murder.

Peter sputters at his presence and nearly catapults away from me. "We were... I mean, I was just-" The lame explanation dies on his tongue.

Eric stalks closer, feeding off Peter's sudden squirrelly behavior. "You were what? Gonna push her in?"

My gaze flickers between the two males, half of me bouncing in sheer glory at the idea of Peter finally getting reamed out, but then the wiser part is hesitant, if not nervous. Eric has never been one to go easy when laying down the gauntlet, but there's a certain darkness in his eyes, one that I've never seen before that sends an anxious knot in my gut.

Eric cocks his head just slightly when Peter fails to answer on time and walks closer, each step slow and precise. "I won't ask again." A crystal clear warning brews in the air.

Peter fumbles to speak. "We were only messing around. I wasn't gonna push her. Or thinking about it. We were just talking, that's it. Right, Charlotte?" I don't like the way he says my name. It sounds so slimy coming from his mouth, as if he just spoke an outlawed word. There's a gleam in his eyes that just dares me to rat him out; a silent ultimatum to keep my mouth shut or worse will happen.

Eric looks at me and raises an eyebrow, as if he knows the lie and is expecting me to blow the cover off.

But I don't. "Yeah. Right."

Peter begins to backtrack towards Drew, slowly, as if the ground is rigged with explosives. "We should, uh- we should probably go now."

"Yeah, you should," Eric says darkly. His eyes stay glued to Peter and Drew as they practically flee down the hall in full sprint, footsteps fading out into the speck of light at the far end. Once we're alone, standing quiet with nothing but the whooshing of the Chasm, Eric turns his full attention to me. "They're gone. Did they hurt you?" His tone and features have smoothed, lost some of their rough edge, but the intensity is solidified in his eyes.

I shake my head and move away from the ledge.

"Threaten you?"

"No. I'm fine... I just-" The words struggle to come out. Anger and fuming retaliation bubbles in my chest. I try to find my voice, but thoughts lose all coherency when Eric is standing here, looking at me like this. His sole presence is enough to hold me hostage. I take a deep breathe and start over. "I'm fine."

"You're shaking," Eric points out, brows pulled together.

I glance down at my hands and realize they're trembling. Either from the close encounter with death or the fact that Peter got away with attempted murder. He's pulled so many unfair antics without as much as a slap on the wrist, it's ridiculous. This would never stand in Candor. When wrongdoings are brought upstage, the crime as well as the perpetrator are made examples of through equity. But I'm not in Candor anymore. This is Dauntless and things work in reverse here. And it all comes back to the fruition of these "new rules." I try not to read to much into it, but still, my roots can't help but press for validity once and a while.

"Yeah, well. It's not from the cold," comes my terse response. My hands clench into fists to camouflage the emotions. Pretending usually comes easy, but now it feels like every grain and tide is tugging hard, threatening to burst my placid facade like shredded paper. Standing idle will certainly not help the situation, so I start for the corridor.

Before I can move past Eric, he grasps my forearm, not roughly, but firm enough to hold me in place so we're almost shoulder to shoulder. "Tell me now if they tried something," he says. "I'll take care of it." The dark promise in his words is unsettling.

In hindsight, it'd be better to have some measure of safety, than end up in another unfair vantage point where my life can easily be taken. But if I accept Eric's offer to set things straight, it will make me look like I can't face my own problems and must resort to seeking aid behind a leader's back. I shouldn't have to do that. I don't  _want_  to do that. It's weakening, but also dangerous if this conflict between Peter and I prolongs any further. Although in retrospect, situations like this in Dauntless are unavoidable. It's hard to expect easy compliance when we're all fighting to get ahead of each other. This should be wired into my brain by now, but it's not everyday where I almost get pushed off a bridge.

_I could have died._

"Thanks," I say warily and tug my arm from Eric's hand. He's standing so close, his cologne wraps around me like heavy smoke. Suffocating and strong. "But I don't need your help."

We stare at each other dead on for half a second, before his hand drops to his side again and the eye contact breaks. I walk away, almost bumping arms with him. The lingering scent of him seems to chase after me, no matter how fast I move my feet. He just makes everything worse, even when he's astoundingly trying to help. A part of me feels a little bad for snapping at him, granted his timely, if not questionable lend of assistance. I should have just bitten my pride and gave him some amount of sincerity, but when threats arise I clam up and throw a dagger to keep everyone else out of hazardous territory, regardless of their good intentions or not.

I guess I'm just an angry person.

But what else is new?

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Hope you liked it. ♥ :)


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